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SAND-BURRS 

George 0rpehier Qnncr^ 




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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/sandburrsOOconn 




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SAND-BURRS 



By 



GEORGE CARPENTER CONNOR 



Fully Illustrated 



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© 



BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO. 
835 BROADWAY, NEW YORK 



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\ AUG 8 iSOf i ' |Q^7 



Copyright 1907 
BY 



GKORGB 9ARPENTKR CONNOR 

All rights reserved ^ 



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01 



Vi. 



I thought that I was drifting 

Upon a restless sea, 
And from afar-beyond the bar- 

A vessel came to me. 
I hailed the barque with bated breath 

15 death. 



M 





(watched that phantom 

led away; 
thej^un a skeleton, 
peare6 with da/. 
I cried,"0 thing of stealth! 
my Fancy^ ship ot wealth, 



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n. 



Walt Whitman gave us "Leaves of Grass" 

Then died within his shanty. 
Bill Nye's ''Baled Hay'' came to pass — 

And "Bill" passed up to ante. 
I'm sorry for Walt and for ''Bill" I'm sighin', 

'Cause I'm takin' a chance myself — on dyin'. 



CONTENTS. 

SONGS OF CHILDHOOD. 

Page. 

Mister Wind i 

Encores 2 

Night and Day 3 

In the Golden Days 3 

The Mother's Song 4 

A Engine 5 

Grace and the Incubator Chicks 6 

Ar' Boy 7 

Little Bo-Peep 8 

Johnny, the Terrible 9 

The Fate of the Rainbow 10 

In the Garden of Discontent 11 

Anty Bellum Days 12 

When the Ladies' Aid Came 14 

Destiny 16 

Me Sister, Dotty 17 

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE OLD FARM. 

The Old Place 23 

'Long th' Ole Rancocas 24 

Crossin' th' Medder 25 

Sayin' Grace 26 

Boy Troubles 2^ 

Drlnkin' Water 28 

Singin' 'Long the Way 29 

Gran'pop's Hog-Killin 30 

OUTDOOR SONGS. 

The Outdoor Band 39 

Melodie 39 



ii Contents. 

Page. 

The Rhododendron of the Drowned Lands 40 

The Promise 41 

Persimmons 41 

In the Fall of the Year 43 

God's Mysteries 44 

'Long th Atlantic Coast 45 

Parodice 46 

Down in the Pines 47 

Faith 48 

Out in the Open 48 

Salute Partners 49 

SINGING ALONG THE ROAD. 

Blind Bartimeus' Second 53 

Deo Gratias 53 

Comedie Humane 54 

To an Easter Flower 54 

Shining Lights 55 

His Creed 55 

Dreams , . . . . 5^ 

The Knowing Smile of God 56 

Resurgam 56 

Memories of Home 57 

The Sign of the Stars 58 

Unknown Hero 59 

Days 60 

Contentment 60 

The Test 61 

To Be 62 

Back, to the Land 62 

Old To-morrows ^ 63 

'Mid Skeptic Thoughts 64 

Creeds 64 

Do Your Best 65 

Showers 65 

Shadowland 66 

The Brave 66 

Faces 67 

The Vital Spark 67 

The Mariner Heart 68 

Cosmic 70 

The Convalescent . . , 70 



Contents. Hi 

Silently, with white wings all folded and drifting 72 

March of the Gold Corps 72 

SHARPS AND FLATS. 

Jersey — a Toast 77A 

Jersey Shad 77A 

The Scale of the Scarlet Skin 77B 

The Empty Cabin 77D 

Longin' for Summer 77 

Longfellow vs. Connor on Arrows 78 

Dope 78 

The Man from Oyster Bay 79 

The Man in Old New J 81 

The Engineer's Doxoilogy 82 

The Land of News 82 

Magazine "Poultry" 83 

Coalescence 84 

Quota 85 

War 85 

Song of the Plodders S6 

Touched 87 

About the "Size" of It 88 

The Burden of Their Songs 89 

The Pace that Kills 89 

A Fallen Star 90 

Snappers 91 

If 92 

"Sure Thing" 92 

Attic Flights 92 

Hard Labor for Life 93 

Who's a Slanderin' Us ? 93 

Flirting With Glory 95 

HOW THE BOSS LOST HIS GRIP 9S 

DOWN JERSEY BALLADS. 

Soul Expansion 109 

The Lay o' the Bloomin' Land no 

Mackerel Placer, a Lay of the Klondyke Gold 

Region 113 

Si Perkins' Steam Thrasher 117 



IV Contents. 

Pag© 

Alaskan Gold Ballad 122 

When H'zika Comes t' Town 124 

Cur'ous Sam 125 

SONGS OF PATRIOTISM. 

Ballad of the Battle of Red Bank 129 

Processional Hymn for the Spanish-American 

War 133 

When Lincoln Called for Volunteers 134 

Memorial Day 138 

The Child and the Veteran 140 

Army Jim 141 

Henry L. Bonsall 142 

Grant Memorial Parade 143 

Xones^ of Company "D" ....,.., 143 

;Oh, Children, View Yon Regiment 146 

Greeting: To' Ye Friende and Yeare 149 

The Day We Celebrate 150 



BRIEF SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 

The subject of this brief sketch was born 
in Camden^ N. J., thirty-three years ago, and has 
lived there at intervals ever since. 

His father, William Donaldson Connor, was a 
veteran of the Civil War, having served in the 
Ii8th Pennsylvania Volunteers, known as the 
'^Corn Exchange" regiment, which saw severe 
and active fighting. After the war he became a 
railroader and acted as Express master on the 
old Cape May express. He railroaded in other 
capacities, chiefly as station master, up until near 
the time of his death in the winter of 188/ . His 
parents came from good American stock. 

After the death of his mother, early in the 
So's, George, who was then a lad of few years, 
went to live with his father, who was holding 
down a lonely little station on the old Philadel- 
phia, Wilmington and Baltimore Central in 
Chester County, Pa., known as Brandywine Sum- 
mit. Here George and his father lost no op- 
portunity to go on fishing, gunning and nutting 
expeditions in the surrounding hills and val- 
leys as often as opportunity afforded an after- 
noon off. There was no school nearby. 

From this station Mr. Connor was trans- 
ferred to a bigger station farther along the line, 
known as Toughkenamon — after an old Indian 



ii Introduction 

chief who, in earlier times, held forth with his 
tribe in that section. The little country village 
was near Kennett Square, the home of Bayard 
Taylor. It was here that George became of use 
to his father, and helped take care of his frail 
little sister Claire, who was then a child, and like- 
wise his elder sister Alice. He went to the ''Lit- 
tle red school-house on the hill," two miles away, 
where school began at half-past eight in the 
morning and kept in until four in the afternoon. 
George helped his father around the station, and 
felt proud when he was permitted to hand up 
manifests to the baggage-man as the trains 
slipped up to the station, and pull the truck up 
to the car door while the station master was at- 
tending to the express car. 

After his father's second marriage, George 
went to live with the family in Atlantic City, 
where his father earned the living by a judicious 
mixture of railroading, hotel business and public 
singing. Two more daughters, Minnie and 
Helen, increased the girls to four and George's 
steady job of "taking care of the baby" was still 
a reality. 

Despite babies, school-days and chores, 
George managed, however, to become the active 
spirit in a bunch of "scourers of the sea", youth- 
ful sons of the Island who led a rollicking life 
of it in fishing, clamin', crabhin', sailing and fre- 
quently almost drownin' or dodging some sort of 
sudden and violent death as none but such a set 
of boys can. 

A climax came, however, after the family 



Introduction iii 

had moved info a long vacant house, when every 
member was lead-poisoned through drinking 
water which had stood in the pipes for some time. 
After a siege in which doctors figured, the family 
was ordered to go to the country and removed 
to the fine, big 200-acre dairy farm belonging to 
J. B. Kelsey, Mrs. Connor's father; located near 
Pemberton, Burlington county, N. J., and situat- 
ed on the beautiful Rancocas creek — or river, as 
it is called at Delanco, zuhere it empties into the 
Delaware, Here the death of George's father 
followed. While the rest of the family recov- 
ered from the lead- poisoning, it hastened Mr. 
Connor's death, which was primarily due to 
Army complaint, from which he had been a 
chronic and terrible sufferer for years. 

George, from being a weasen sickly ''kid", 
soon began to blossom into a typical farmer's boy; 
long, lanky and hungry-loo kin', but tough and 
wiry — thanks to a diet of fresh beef, pork and 
"pertaters" administered in large and healthy 
doses three times a day. He worked hard and 
long and earned his way, which meant board, 
clothes and winter schooling. 

The big farm carried over 100 head of cattle 
and George nobly "held his end up" with the 
hired men, by milking a dozen cozvs morning and 
night and raising the dozen or so calves that 
were always on hand calling for early and late 
attention and between times wheeling in barrozvs 
ladened with wood to supply the great kitchen 
stove, which, cooking for 20, had a bigger and 
more voracious appetite than even the farmer 



W Introduction 

lad, whose hours ranged from 4 o'clotk in the 
mornmg until 8 o'clock at night, with school- 
hours in between during the four months of 
winter and a "straight day" during the summer 
months. When the farm grew busy with great 
crops of grain and hay, George worked the sec- 
ond team in the fields to the harrow, roller and 
hay rake — not being ballasted heavy enough to 
hold a plow down or control the powerful ener- 
gies of the "first team" of magnificent horses 
"Maud" and "Major". Such inspiring work as 
shoveling out cow stables kept the razor-like 
edge on his appetite and made him a hard- 
worked, cheerful and happy boy, which was lay- 
ing the foundation for some strenuous days 
ahead. 

He left the farm after a few years and came 
back to Camden in 188 p. He got a job in a 
dingy and cheerless factory near Third and Cal- 
lowhill streets, Philadelphia, where he tried to 
make a three-dollar-a-week salary cover four 
dollar's worth of expenses — until Typhoid fever 
got him board and medical treatment for noth- 
ing for a period of a month or so; but Connor 
wasn't cut out for any such inglorious ending. 
After he got around again, kind relatives initi- 
ated him into the mysteries of the type case and 
soon he was hard at work "throwing in" type 
which other men set, for the publication of two 
Philadelphia monthly lazv magazines; the 
American Lazv Register and Current Comment. 
The types started the latent possibilities to work 
and soon Connor began sending bits of verse 



Introduction y 

to the four afternoon dailies in Camden, hut 
chiefly to the Daily Post, the pioneer paper of 
that town, long since merged with the Post- 
Telegram. Whatever it was that Connor wrote, 
it attracted the attention of the late Henry L. 
Bonsall, the royal old Veteran editor, Civil War 
Correspondent and writer. ''I took you to he 
an old rat like myself — not a stripling," was the 
Veteran's salutation, after Connor had called at 
the Post, in response to the editor's ''suhpoena". 
Editor Bonsall from that time on interested him- 
self in the young man in many ways, and the 
orphan responded, loving the old editor as a 
father. 

Armed with a letter from Editor Bonsall, 
Connor went to the Sunday editor of the Phila- 
delphia Inquirer and ohtained work at writing 
special articles, signed and illustrated, for the 
Sunday Magazine supplement, meanwhile filling 
in spare time and space with many of the various 
songs in this volume. The Sunday editor, H. B. 
Nason, thought so well of these songs that many 
of them were turned over to the art department 
where they were illustrated and featured in the 
Magazine section. The Philadelphia North 
American ahout this time interested itself enough 
in Connor's work to print his songs regularly 
on the editorial page, from whence they were 
copied into the Boston Evening Traveller and 
other leading papers. 

In i8p6 Connor started a little monthly mag- 
azine — not much more than a pamphlet — called 
the New Jersey Sand-Burr. He located out in 



vi Introduction 

the town of Stockton (now the Eleventh and 
Twelfth wards of Camden), and very shortly 
merged the little magazine into a political weekly 
newspaper, calling it the East Side Press, by 
which term the old town of Stockton eventually 
became known after its annexation to the city of 
Camden. Connor plunged into politics and 
started an epoch in his life which he designates 
in a characteristic way as the "Ten-Year's War." 
Prior to this he had worked at the cases in 
various newspaper offices, and had made a glori- 
ous failure of a Camden church paper — his first 
venture. 

It was about this time that Connor identified 
himself with a chemical laboratory on Cooper's 
creek, as a sort of side line. The place had a 
calamity in zvhich several men were Rilled in a 
room by noxious gases, and from which Connor 
rescued a woman zvho was likewise being as- 
phyxiated. He graduated to another secret 
chemical laboratory in Philadelphia, run by the 
chewing gum trust and in a few months this 
place blezu up, destroying half a million dollars 
worth of property, killing four people and injur- 
ing forty — the result of storing 1,500 gallons 
of benzol in one place in defiance of the city 
ordinances. Connor's companions were slaught- 
ered round about him but he and another victim 
managed to clamber up out of a pile of burning 
debris thirty feet deep and make their escape 
in a sensational manner, while dozens of streams 
of water was playing on the roaring furnace, as 
a general police and fire alarm had summoned the 



Introduction vii 

entire Philadelphia forces to the scene. As a 
result of this affair Connor went to bed for two 
months, hut was about in time to be the star 
witness in 'jo cases of litigation against the Chew- 
ing Gum trust, to whom he proved to be a thorn 
in the side and a blessing to the plaintiffs. He 
was examined for days at a time before a referee, 
where cases were tried in batches of ten at a 
time and in single cases where he spent days 
under the fire of the late Philadelphia Director of 
Public Safety, Sheldon Potter, who was the cor- 
poration's chief counsel by the year, at that 
time — 1897. 

This was during the days of the Spanish- 
American war. Connor was a member of the 
Third New Jersey regiment but did not get 
away. He had more exciting times at home, 
however. 

Devoting himself to the East Side Press, in 
conjunction with general reportorial work on the 
Camden dailies, he was kept busy. He studied 
and wrote songs at night, when he wasn't firing 
political hot-shot at the Democrats, who had a 
strangle-hold on the affairs and the finances of 
the old town. And while "Mud was thicker than 
water" most of the time, the Democratic gang 
was cleared out to make room for the "other 
crozvd." He handed out amazing "roasts" and 
accepted those in return with the calm philosophy 
of a good editor. His innumerable battles with 
his two contemporaries and his political friends, 
the enemy, ivere watched from afar with humor 
and rage. He reported the County courts and 



viii Introduction 

the political-official news for several years and 
became a student of humanity as he met it in 
the courts and a quiet observer of the under- 
ground political system of the Republican Ma- 
chine, which has ever dominated Camden's city 
and county affairs under David Baird. 
These things were reflected in the "fight-- 
ing" East Side Press during the Ten 
Year's War, and two years ago he identified him- 
self with the Reform or New Idea movement, 
inaugurated by Senator Everet Colby and en- 
dorsed by President Roosevelt and the people, 
along which lines he is still fighting. 

Mr. Connor lays no especial claims to excep- 
tional merit in his volume of homely songs — 
they are all close to earth, so to speak; 'nor yet 
does he aspire to being known as a poet; in fact 
he shrinks from the commonplace acceptance of 
the term as it is applied by the good-natured 
badgerings of his newspaper colleagues. How- 
ever, he has always had a happy faculty of doing 
for himself — in a pleasant but positive way — 
anything that his hands or head finds to do, and 
to do it to the very best of his ability and op- 
portunity — whether in law scrimmages, in politi- 
cal fights or in nezvspaper work — hence the ar- 
rival of his little book. He has the true 
saving grace of wit and humor which mingles 
well with the pathos of experience. 

The fact that single handed, he "covered" one 
of the biggest seashore disasters of the Atlantic 
coast in ipo6 — the Anglesea disaster, for the five 
daily morning papers of Philadelphia, on the 



Introduction ix 

memorable Sunday afternoon and night of July 
2p, when his 10,000-word ''story'' over the wire 
was received, printed and his work commended by 
the night editors who had never met him personal- 
ly, shows that he can and will rise to the occasion, 
and illustrates that even yet there are chances for 
any poor, lonely orphan outcast, who is thinking 
out great thoughts on some out-of-the-way farm 
or corner of the earth, unknown and unheard. 

Kindness, self-culture in mind, body and char- 
acter; cheerfulness, and consideration of others 
in these sordid and marvellous days and the love 
of Nature and Country — which is part of the 
Greater Love — is, in short, Mr. Connor's Mes- 
sage to the wide, wide world and its People — ■ 
especially the Plodders, the Veterans and the 
Outcasts who are fighting the puzzling and tre- 
mendous battle in order to find their true selves, 

THE PUBLISHERS. 



g>0n00 0f ffii}tt6I|00jll. 



MISTER WIND. 

When Mister Wind roars through the wood, 
An' goes moanin' around the place, 

I think of the times I wasn't good 
To me Ma; an' I hides me face! 

I peep from the covers to see if Dad, 
Left the lamp in the hall below; 

Then I cover me head as I lay in bed. 
An' wish Mister Wind would go ! 

I hear him rattle the winder-sash. 

An' then heave an orf ul sigh ; 
An' I hear the big trees tug an' thrash 

As Mister Wind scoots by. 

An' I'm skeered to death alone at night. 

In a great big room that way. 
I'd call fer help if it wern't for the light 

An' the fun they'd have next day. 

So when I hear them noises come — 
That creakin' an' moanin' so drear, 

I cover me head with the big warm spread 
An' I know that there's nothin' to fear. 



Sand-Burrs 



ENCORES. 

Beyond the hilltops of Long Ago, 
In the purple mountains of Truth, 

I look o'er the years through a vista I know. 
To the beautiful valley of Youth. 

And I smiled on the scenes so happy and free, 
And the wonderful times that I had; 

When shirt and pants, in that Used-to-Bc, 
Was the rig of an out-door Lad. 

That Mother-kiss on a freckled face — 

A face that was joyously brown. 
Then the dusty walk to the *learnin'-place/ 

A mile and a half out of town. 

How I held my recess apple tight; 

And as I scanned it with wishful eyes. 
Something kept telling me, "take a bite— 

And diminish its rotund size !" 

And during the long school hours, then, 
I'd keep taking "just one bite more." 
And by recess-time — at half -past ten — 

There'd be nothing left but a core. 

* * * * ♦ 

And a man with toil-worn hands appears, 

From the Vista that sparkles so, 
Who has eaten the fruit of some bitter years, 

3ut he treasures the cores — I know ! 



Songs of Childhood 



NIGHT AND DAY. 

The difference between the Night, my dear. 

And then between the Day, 
Is, while one is coming toward us here. 

One travels the other way. 

And they both pass by in the Evening time, 

Each winging its noiseless flight; 
Night shadows Day in a distant clime, 

While here Day shadows the Night. 

'Tis the land of those great To-morrows, child. 

That are ever drawing night. 
And there hurrying ways make Yesterdays, 

When the Dawn and the Dusk pass by I 



IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 

It was many years ago they played 

Together about the door; 
The boy worked hard for his little pard. 

In the golden days of yore. 

Mud pies and school and keeping house — ' 

In their artless, childhood ways. 
Their mothers beamed and the kind sun gleamed 

On those "kids", in the golden days! 

It doesn't seem so long ago, 
But Time has a ruthless swing; 



4 Sand-Burrs 

And the happy pair with the artless air, 
Are doing the same old thing. 

And their daughter plays with a neighbor's son, 

With the same old artless air; 
They married; and the "boy" he works, 

For his "girl" with the golden hair! 



THE MOTHER'S SONG. 

Dear Towhead, come get all your trinkets and 
things ; 

Go under the shade trees and play. 
Go talk to the chicks and watch their cute tricks, 

Then tell dollies six what they say. 

Make pies in the shade my sweet little maid, 
And talk in your own artless style. 

One could search the world through for a child 
sweet as you 
When you sing to your dollies and smile. 

You go at it so hard— little Heart — when you 
play, 

As when oft I have watched from the door. 
That even the bee is no worker like thee. 

For although he does well — you do more. 

My Babe — ^how I love you — I dream it o' nights ; 

When I squeeze you your body's so small. 
I'd ne'er know what to do, my dear child, with- 
out you, 

'Cause you're mine — and I love you — ^that's all. 



Songs of Childhood 



A ENGINE. 

If ther's anything I like ter see 'long 'bout dark 

at night, 
Its a engine with a string of cars — a flash of 

meller light. 
I stand upon th' slopin' hill, right where th' 

crossroads go. 
An' lissen for her far-off roar an' hear her 

whistle blow. 

I hear her stop an' then start up a few miles 
down th' line, , 

Then see her come a-rattlin' 'long, her headlight 
all a-shine. 

Th' light a-streamin' from her cars — fer cross- 
ins tootin' loud. 

An' whiz-z-z! She's shootin' by me with her 
sleepy 'scursion crowd. 

Everything's so peaceful like until she comes in 

sight, 
A-rattlin' 'long th' roadway like a livin' stream of 

light. 
She skeers th' night birds through th' woods an' 

skeers th' folks in town, 
A-clatterin' over trolley tracks — not even slowin' 

down. 

She romps up to th' stashun jes' as pleasant as 
you please, 



6 Sand-Burrs 

A-breathin' an* a-puffin* — first a coff an' then a 

sneeze. 
I say "howdy" to th' engineer — an' say, it must 

be boss — 
Ter set up there so proud an' grand an' run a 

Iron Ho'ss ! 



GRACE AND THE INCUBATOR CHICKS. 

A freshly hatched chick looked up in amazement. 
As he limply stepped out of the shell, 

And just as soon as he got o'er his dazement. 
He was heard to ejaculate, "Well!" 

His wee, plaintive "peep" said, "where is my 
mother?" 
And he gazed at the white eggs beside him; 
But his nearest blood kin was a weak little 
brother 
With the very same parent denied him! 

"It's dark and so hot here — my gracious alive!" 
And he shook his wee self as he wondered : 

"I cannot quite see how a wee chick can thrive 
In the dark with the thermometer a hundred !" 

But soon with a light came our dear little Grace, 

And she gathered wee chick and his brother ; 
And they both nestled close to her sweet little 
face. 
While they whispered, '*we're glad we've foiin^ 
mother!" 



Songs of Childhood 



AR' BOY, 

Th' day ar' Will, ar' little man, died, 
Ma, she done nothin' but cried an' cried. 
I tried to comfort her, but t'want no use; 
An' Sis, she tried; for a poor excuse, 
Sayin' as he was safe from harm. 

But 'twixt me and you. 

Things jes' looked blue — 
An' everything knew — on ar' old farm. 

Th' pigeons clamored, as pigeons can, 

Waccooin' for the little man ; 

Th' calves wan't tended to at night — 

Will alius done that by lantern-light. 

The' ho'sses would neigh an' his cat would purr. 

Oh, 'tween me an' you, 

Things jes' looked blue 
Fer we'uns two, alone like we were! 

That boy, he had th' bluest eyes! 

Fair haired an' slender fer his size; 

Took after his mother — he jes' worshipped his 

Marm — 
Well, he loved 'bout everything on th' farm. 
An' Will was his old man's greatest joy; 

Oh, 'twixt me an' you, 

Things sorter fell through. 
An' we jes' can't do without the boy! 



Sand-Burrs 



LITTLE BO-PEEP. 

Little Bo-Peep came down Christmas morn, 

With great, round peering eyes. 
She seemed to know that we folks below, 

Had in store for her a "s'prise." 
She kissed us all and whispered words, 

That only a parent enjoys; 
Oh, just as Boy Blue that she once knew, 

Loved his soldiers and other toys. 

She caressed and cooed to her dog and cat, 

And ran about the room, 
Where at school she'd play the livelong day. 

Or would sweep with her mother's broom. 
But here she stopped in wonder, amaze. 

For a great line of candy toys, 
Like the animals that left Ararat 

Paraded before her gaze. 

There were amber horses and lions red ; 

Yet they all made never a noise. 
And they seemed to know just where to go — » 

Those sweet little candy toys. 

But the toys are g-one — 'twas so long ago. 

And her playthings stand as they do, 
For little Bo-Peep is fast asleep — 

And asleep is the Little Boy Blue! 



Songs of Childhood 



JOHNNY, THE TERRIBLE. 

Gee! I'd never like ter be an actress — 

Fellers all the time a-huggin' her — wow! 
I don't think its a tall right; fact is, 

Don't think I'll get married ennyhow! 
When I see Mame a-settin' in the pollor 

With Jim, a-settin' on ar' big settee, 
Huggin' an' a-kissin' on the quiet, I holler 

An' 'en skips out — mebbe they ain't mad at me I 

You'd think acter-folks 'ud get good an' tired 
A-huggin' away an' lovin' like they do; 

Mame she ain't no acter, but Pop gets all-fired 
Mad, 'bout them settin' up so late, I tell you! 

Gosh ! but they'd make good acters, I'll bet ; 
Practicin' the way they do, night after night. 

When I get older — not fer a long while yet — 

I'm gonter act like Jim does, alright, alright ! 



LIMBERLOCKS AND LAZYBONES. 

Limberlocks, at break of day, 
Jumped from bed in his quick way, 
Brought the cows from pastures sweet. 
In his bare and sturdy feet. 
Turned them in and gave them grain, 
Milked them, turned them out again — • 
Humming lightly, some refrain. 
Lazybones, with swollen eye. 



10 Sand-Burrs 

Uncombed hair and crumpled tie. 
Ate his breakfast, took his slate, 
Went to school a half hour late. 
Missed in spelling ; "stay to-night/' 
Teacher said, "and get it right." 
Then came poking down the road, 
Stopping like some hoppy toad — 
Resting where the brooklet flowed. 

Limberlocks was first to school. 
Knew his lessons as a rule; 
Did the chores about the barn, 
Helped his father run the farm. 
Was, in his fond father's eyes, 
Quick and full of enterprise. 
Limberlocks and Lazybones — 
One all smiles; the other, groans! 



THE FATE OF THE RAINBOW. 

A rainbow drooped across the sky, 

(For a heavy shower had just passed by) 

Its end had reached my garden fair. 

When the sun came out and it went — somewhere. 

In the afternoon on that showery day, 

When the sun had kissed the drops away, 

I peeped in the garden, unaware. 

And lo, I beheld the Rainbow there! 

I'll venture to say you have all heard tell, 
Of some wonderful isle of the sea? ah, well. 
There was never an isle where a rainbow fell. 



Songs of Childhood , ii 

'Nor a spot on one where a bow could dwell. 
But here in my flower garden fair, 
I had taken a rainbow unaware! 
Indeed, I felt sorry to see him so, 
(For the flowers had pulled him apart, you 
know.) 

One rose had his red and another, his yellow ; 
The leaves had his green; (I pitied the fellow!) 
Those cannibal flowers all seemed to delight, 
In donning his colors; (I pitied his plight!) 
An ungainly sun-flower siezed all his gold ; 
From the pansies his purple he could not with- 
hold. 
Till nothing was left but a little pale blue. 
Which the violets soon gathered to sip with the 
dew. 

Soon the poor little rainbow had all disappeared ; 
Then I entered my garden and (just as I feared) 
The flowers all nodding their fresh little faces. 
Looked flushed and contented amid their dis- 
graces ; 
Well, no, not disgraces, for rainbows and 

showers, 
Were created of God for the good of the flowers I 



IN THE GARDEN OF DISCONTENT. 

A lily stood nodding along by a stream, 
In an old-fashioned garden so rare. 



12 Sand-Burrs 

There were flowers and grasses around and be- 
tween. 
But Miss Lil was as lonesome as fair. 

She stood Hke a Ruler amid all her slaves, 
And as fresh as the brooklet nearby. 

And the dew-diamonds sparkled upon her green 
leaves, 
Like tears in a little girl's eye. 

Her companions adored her and likewise the 
stream ; 
A Pine loved her too, o'er the way; 

And spread at her feet was a carpet of green- 
So she should have been cheerful and gay. 

"No, I don't like this old-fashioned garden at all. 

And I'm weary of living in here !" 
And over the rocks of the old-fashioned wall, 

Miss Lily would longingly peer. 

One day while lamenting her sorrowful lot, 
A workman came dragging a beam ; 

And it tore her right out of the little grass plot — 
And tumbled her into the stream! 



ANTY BELLUM DAYS. 

It*s been so many years ago since anty bellum 

days. 
An* I'm a-gettin' crippled up — "no good'* — so 

Hanner says. 



Songs of Childhood 13 

'Spect me bones have had good cause fer thus a- 

givin' out, 
'Cause they uster always did get sorter slammed 

about. 

Can't recall's I was so bad'ner yet so good at 

that; 
Uster alius shy a stone at any dog er cat — 
Uster alius run Mom's hens — a big disturbance 

raise. 
But my — Pop licked me thunderin' hard — in 

anty-bellum days! 

Them anty-bellum days ! How I loved yer ways ; 
Pop he'd lick me awful hard — gee, the welts he'd 

raise ! 
Uster raise pertaters some; corn an' bunions 

grew. 
Partly on his whoppin' farm — mostly in his shoe. 

Uster work in summer time; winter go ter 

school ; 
"That confounded dum," he'd say, "wuddent 

make a fool." 
(Lickins won't look good in rhymes, like I 

ketched in them old times ! ) 
One day Pop, he did look glum — frown 'pon his 

face. 

Says he, "young man, while I'm away, don't you 

leave th' place." 
But when I heered war'd busted out, had me 

mind sot so. 



14 Sand-Burrs 

Swore I'd ruther be shot dead than ter miss th' 

show. 
So while Pop was inter town, talkin' 'bout our 

foes. 

Young Hopeful goes an' gets his gun — orf ter 
war he goes. 

An' 'fore Pop found out where I'd gone — been 
orf nigh tew days. 

Glory be! 

Rebels ne'er got licked like me — in all their hel- 
ium days ! 



WHEN THE LADIES' AID CAME. 

It's been so long since I was there^ 
Rockin' in Gran'ma's rockin' chair, 
In her old time settin' room, 
Makin' sunshine out o' gloom 
An' sewin' — sewin' great long strips. 
Of carpet rags from little bits — 
An' me a-makin' sissor-clips. 

I uster cut rags jes' fer fun, 

But Gran'ma'd sew ter get 'em done; 

I'd wrap my rag balls loose you know 

An' pull th' others tight — jes' so 

That she'd think I done th' most. 

Then you oughter hear me boast! 

I'd run eround an' tell 'em all 

I alius sewed th' biggest ball. 

Gran'ma 'ud smile in her dear way—- 



Songs of Childhood 15 

"Why I b'lieve he did," she'd say 
An' make me turn me face away. 

On a wet an' cloudy day, 

Gran'ma's friends would come an* stay, 

An' sew an' sew, an' sew away. 

I'd get that tired cuttin' rags. 

An' tear in' clos in carpet rags, 

I'd jes' get mad an' think folks bores; 

An' wish we hadn't things Hke floors. 

Folks didn't love me, I'm afraid, 
'Cause they was church folks — Ladies' Aid. 
They'd come ter help me Gran'ma sew; 
I cuddent see no reason though, 
'Cause they never worked — ^my laws! 
Jes' set there an' used ther jaws — 
Chattin' 'bout th' ole Chinee, 
An' frownin' sidewise down at me. 
I made 'em mad because I played. 
An' never cleaned th' muss they made- 
Then made a racket when they prayed. 

It's been a long, long time ago. 
Since I helped me Gran'ma sew. 
An' years have left ther finger trace 
Upon her dear old saint-like face. 
Faithful an' cheerful — future won — 
Here's hopin' th' same for that bad Gran'son. 
For this is his one vain, sad regret: 
He can't sew rags with his Gran'ma yet — 
For ther's other things ter make him sweat 1 



i6 Sand-Burrs 



DESTINY. 



The child of Youth came tumbling in. 

Garbed in the clothes of elders ; he 
Was "playin' man" or just had been, 
So came to his father — his guiding star — 
Saying, "look, Pa, how comical I are!" 
The father looked upon his child, 
Patted the head, remarked and smiled — 
"Son, you look great!" 

And now the Youth came bounding in ; 

Husky of form and freckled face. 
Into his mother's flour bin. 

He heaved his books with schoolboy grace. 
"Say, Pop, I walloped Frank to-day 

And got kept in; but my good land! 
I don't like studyin' anyway — 

Can't just seem to understand." 
The father's face, tho lined and seared 

From labor at Life's forge and strife. 
Smiled down upon the boy he'd reared, 

Then gazed ahead into his life. 
"Well, son," he said, with steadfast glance, 

Into that freckled countenance, 
"It's idle for me to berate — 

You're simply great!" 

The years flew on — yet God was kind— ^ 

Inasmuch as Death came not. 
The Youth acquired a master mind— 



Songs of Childhood 17 

Fate chose for him the Conqueror's lot. 
And when from reahiis of high address. 
The Hope of Youth came, tall and fair, 
T'was 'Top's" ttprn to look up and bless 

His wayward son, and smooth his hair. 
''My boy," he said, "lo, I rejoice!" 

And back o'er years of rough-shod Fate 
He gazed, then spake with quivering voice — ■ 

"None but God is great!" 



ME SISTER, DOTTY. 

There's a little girl lives in our house — she ain't 

much over eight; 
She's running' errands all the time from mornin' 

until late. 
Th' neighbors like her jes' because she hurries 

ofif bare- headed; 
But when her mother sends her out — sometimes 

— her feet seem leaded. 
From early morn when she gets up, clad in her 

gingham gown, 
Some neighbor calls: "Say, Dotty dear, would 

you mind runnin' down 
T' Mister Smith's an' get some soap? I haven't 

time to go." 
An' Dotty smiles a beamin' smile an' answers, 

"I gess so?" 

I know she plays her level best an' sleeps so 
hard at night. 



i8 Sand-Burrs 

That when she's wrapped in dreams she goes an' 

shops in nightgown white; 
She's sent to stores fer spirits buyin' angel cakes 

an' jells, 
That good folks has in Heaven — what the Good 

Man angel sells. 
She'd rather work fer neighbors an' she thinks it 

mighty fine; 
It makes her face grow freckles an' it makes 

them blue eyes shine! 
It t'ain't no bother to that girl in snow er when 

its hot; 
Don't think I ever done it — I jes' reckon I guess 

not! 

There'll come a time, however, when Dot will 

have a kid. 
An' then she'll scold the neighbors what wants 

her when she did. 
Poor, needy, nearby neighbors what ain't got 

anyone 
Ter run their errands for them bareheaded in th' 

sun. 
I like ter wheel th' wheel-barrer — takes all th' 

strength I had; 
But what is play at Mister Smith's is work at 

home with Dad. 
But Dot, she's runnin' to th' stores an' helpin' her 

poor mother — 
If I was her I'd help some too — ^but then I'm her 

big brother! 

Brothers they don't haf to help their parents — 
that's conceded; 



Songs of Childhood 19 

They jes' lay low, keep out of sight an' bum 
when they're most needed. 

A rapid shoot around th' barn ter gain th' wood- 
shed's cover. 

An' then they're safe till dinner time as any ring- 
tailed plover. 

Fishin', swimmin' an' 'splorin' woods is sport 
what I call great ; 

But boys get a-nuff of everything — 'cludin' sleep- 
in' late. 

Sisters are good an' don't get licked — errands is 
what they're made for; 

But you don't ketch fellers chasin' 'round fer 
any nearby neighbor! 



l^ttAUttmnB 0f % 05lb Jfantu 



THE OLD PLACE. 

I recolect on Gran'pop's farm, 

How tuckered out I uster be ; 
A-grubbin' weeds an' droppin' corn, 

'Er choppin' by the wilier tree. 
I milked the cows an' cleaned th' stalls, 

An' had ter get up 'fore th' sun. 
Oh, hully gee! I can't begin 

Ter think of haf th' things I done ! 

I'd watch me shadder on th' ground, 

Through all th' summer afternoon; 
A-wishin' that th' sun was down 

An' chores was done, er some such boon. 
I 'spose I uster poke a-bout — 

A good-fer-nothin' way of mine — 
A-waitin' ter hear th' old Gent shout: 

"Come 'long, young man, it's quittin' time!' 

I had ter sit at supper time 

Between a bunch of hired men; 
I'd hear them talkin' 'bout th' farm — 

It wasn't interestin' then — 
But now I kinder wisht I could 

Get back among them as of yore* 
I long ter hear th' Governer talk, 

About th' old time home once more! 
23 



24 Sand-Burrs 



'LONG TH' OLE RANCOCAS. 

Down behind th' orchard fence, jes' haf way 

down th' hill, 
Where you can gaze o'er fields of maize an' see 

th' old grist mill, 
Jes' where th' scarlet clover hedge has blossomed 

out right thick, 
With trees a-droopin' o'er th' banks, flows old 

Rancocas crick! 
Th' heat in quiverin' tongues ascends from orf 

th' medder-land; 
While leaves is hangin' quiverin'-like an' yonder 

heap of sand 
Is all but melted inter glass; right here you catch 

a breeze — 
You take a swim then take a rest beneath the 

hick'ry trees. 
Th' windmill towers on th' bank, a skiff swings 

in th' stream; 
Th' pikes leap up an' says "catchug!" How 

bright ther colors gleam! 
Them yaller lilies fill th' coves too sweet ter put 

in rhyme; 
An' everything's jes' beautiful — because its sum- 
mertime ! 



Recollections of Old Farm 



CROSSIN' TH' MEDDER. 

Back of th' house on th' brow of th' hill. 
Between th' crick an' th' old windmill. 
In what was termed the bottom-land, 
Sand-burrs thrived in ther lair of sand. 

Years ago, when I were a lad, 

Many's th' good old time I've had; 

Many's th' pike a whole foot long, 

U've ketched on me hummade tackle strong. 

Many a day in th' languid air, 
U've splashed in th' crick with me body bare, 
Er sunned meself on th' slopin' banks, 
Playin' leap-frog an' other pranks. 

But 'fore I'd get over th' bottom-land, 
Scorchin' me feet in th' burnin' sand, 
Down I'd flop like a wilted rose. 
With a lot of sand-burrs in me toes! 

What a sensation of soleful bliss, 
Is ther in such a sting like this; 
Swelterin' weather, burnin' sand — 
Stickers a-threatenin' on every hand! 

It takes a feller with lots of pluck, 
Ter pull out a burr what's way deep struck ; 
An' it takes more pluck 'mid burrs like these, 
Ter walk exceptin' on hands and knees ! 



26 Sand-Burrs 

But beyond was th' crick — then ho f er a swim ; 
You'd ferget yer hurts till th' next burr grim, 
Would bring you to earth with orfulest cries, 
An' th' cows would look with mild surprise. 

But after all, life's aches an' pains, 

Are fer th' best; us sufferer's gains — 

'Cause after I'd wade through them sand-burrs 

thick, 
I'd almost get drownd in th' bloomin' crick ! 



SAYIN' GRACE. 

I well recall them days of yore as somehow, then 

I felt, 
Th' throbbin' pulse of mischief; recallin' how I 

knelt. 
Beside me mother's knee ter pray — not 'zackly 

from my choice — 
An' she a-tellin' what ter say in her melodious 

voice. 
I well recall them days agone an' as I older 

grew, 
When I'd been weaned from cribs an' bibs — 

things powerful hard ter do; 
High chairs, blocks, an' frocks an' socks, an' 

horses made of tin. 
An' baby clothes an' such as those — I alius have 

ter grin. 

When we'd set down fer dinner. Ma set down 
next ter me; 



/ 



Recollections of Old Farm 2y 

'Cause I was alius hungriest — jes' as hungry as 

could be; 
Cudden't wait a minit; keep a-gazin' at Gran' 

pop's face, 
Waitin' an' a-wishin' he'd hustle up the Grace. 
Then all of us would bow our heads — all ex- 

ceptin' me; 
We'd hang our heads while Pa would say, 

"Father we thank Thee—" 
While I'd be lookin' hungry-like a-watchin' every 

face. 
An' wonder in' how our hungry horde could ever 

stop fer Grace! 



BOY TROUBLES. 

I wish this here was summertime — cold weather's 

what I hate; 
Then a feller don't get froze — yes, I kinder like 

to skate — 
But then you can't go swimmin' an' every feller 

knows 
Swimmin's a whole lot better than skatin' an' 

gettin' froze. 
You can't be clubbin' apples er climbin' cherry 

trees ; 
Can't pick berries neither — Can't do none of 

these ! 
All you can do is go ter school an' then home on 

a run; 
Play a while an' get wet feet — is that what you 

call fun? 



28 Sand-Burrs 

What I call fun is runnin' 'round not wearin* 

enny shoes ; 
Eat green apples all th' time an' goin' where you 

choose. 
Never havin' enny school an* after night's begun, 
Not gettin' sent ter bed at eight — ^that's what I 

call fun! 
Jes' wait till I get seventeen — Pop won't say with 

a frown, 
"Young man, be in by eight o'clock— er risk a 

dressin' down!" 
I'm pritty careful 'bout that thing fer when Dad 

does get mad, 
He makes me goter dancin' with a limber hick'ry 

gad. 
But what's th' use of wishin' things; I'll never 

get that old; 
It's school an' homb, then homb an' school, an' 

teacher's on th' scold. 
Because 1 can't parse sentences as long as 

Daddy's gun; 
I wisht 'twas summertime right now — so's I 

could have some fun! 



DRINKIN' WATER. 

Layin' on yer stomach a-drinkin' up hill, 
'Neath th' towerin' white oak trees, getting' yer 

fill; 
Hear th' water gurglin' flowin' o'er th' brink — ■ 
An' you with nothin' else ter do but drink an* 

drink an' drink I 



Recollections op Old Farm 29 

Birds a-hoverin' 'round you flittin' o'er th' pool, 
Drinkin' an' a-singin' an' you a-keepin' cool. 
Settin' on th' stump here — ^pleasant don't you 

think, 
Ter jes' lay on yer stomach — an' drink, an' drink, 

an' drink? 
Over in th' rye field where I jes' come from. 
The' boys are all a-slavin' — I can hear th' reaper 

hum; 
I jes' stopped here a minnit — part ter hear that 

bob-o'-link — 
An' because I felt that thirsty I could drink, an' 

drink, an' drink! 
Hullo, ther's someone callin' ; it must be th' Old 

Gent; 
He's missed me from the rye field, but he 

knows 'bout where I went. 
Gee ! I gotter hustle orf an' as I come ter think, 
'Spose I gotter bind rye — till I get another drink I 



SINGIN' LONG TH' WAY. 

"Whoopee-day !" me Dad would say 
When anything went wrong; 

"Whoopee-day" — is jes' th' way 
He'd say it good an' strong. 

Then after all, late in th' Fall, 
If corn hung poor an' dry. 
Dad didn't show it hurt at all. 
But Ma — she'd have ter cry. 



30 "Sand-Burrs 

Dad didn't seem ter care, but then 

I've seen a quiet pain. 
Steal 'cross his face an' leave its trace 

Fer work he'd done in vain. 

*"It's jes' th' form God has things done- 
Sufficient unto th' day!" 
lAn' Dad he'd toil from sun ter sun, 
A-singin' 'long th' way. 



GRAN'POP'S HOG-KILLIN'. 

Th' weather had been bitter cold an' Gran'pop 

says ter me, 
"Them corn-fed hogs is fattenin' up right nice 

an' plump" says he ; 
"Guess we'll have ter kill 'em soon fer pork be 

raisin' some 
So take old Jim an' go th' rounds; ask all our 

folks ter come." 
"Get Zekil Butterworth an' wife^ — you might ask 

Uncle Bill; 
Tell Dan'l Jones an' Nathan Fort — ^tell Johnnie, 

if you will. 
Tell Tom an' Zeb an' Ike an' Will an' others as 

kin come, 
Tell Ma's friends and th' little ones an' Jabez 

Brown, yer chum. 
Soon Bill Jone's brand new corn-sides an' finest 

plowin' team. 
Brought scalder an' th' hoes an' knives ter 

scrape th' porkers clean. 






\ l,P' nil 




Recollections of Old Farm 31 

They got things fixed an' ready for Thanks- 

givin' 'twas ter be; 
Got water in th' boiler an' th' gambles crost th' 

tree. 
So early on Thanksgivin' morn th' folks begin 

ter come, 
In carry-alls an' corn-sides an' shelvins — till I 

vum 
Th' door-yard was jes' littered an' th' wagon 

shed was — why 
We put two ho'sses in one stall an' didn't they 

carry on high? 
Then after settin' 'round a bit we went out to 

th' pen, 
An' got th' water bilin' hot, rolled up our sleeves 

an' then 
We all jumped in among th' hogs an' jimminee 

— what fun, 
Ter hear them hogs a-squealin' — an' ter see me 

Gran'dad run! 
We'd try ter grab one by th' ears an' if that hold 

would fail, 
We'd let him pass an' make a lunge ter nab him 

by th' tail ! 
Them pigs jes' knew what's what though, for 

right along yer track. 
They'd buck yer legs an' down you'd go, 

a-wallerin' on yer back! 
An' then oh, how th' boys would laff — while you 

with nothin' broke,. 
Set tryin' ter recolect er find if earth had lost a 

spoke ! 



3^ Sand-^SuM^ 

But soon you'd get broke in ter bumps an' jes* 

have time ter feel, 
A sort of conscious pity at th' porker's dying 

squeal. 
Its strange we feel enjoyment in such seemin' 

cruel sport, 
But you mustn't stop ter reason when yer busy 

killin' pork. 
An' if God had designs agin a man fer bounties 

spread, 
By His good hands, I shouldn't think he'd put 

sin in our head. 
So it didn't take us fellers long teir kill them 

hogs and then. 
We cleaned thing up an' washed ourselves, then 

all of us men, 
Assembled in th' kitchen settin' 'round a-crack- 

ing jokes, 
An' talkin' to each other or with th' wimmen 

folks. 
M'lindy Haines, she alius came — I never knew 

what fer, 
But everytime I got a chanst, I'd steal a look at 

her. 
She had her hair hung down in plats — ^she had 

some freckles, too — 
She wasn't very much fer shape — ^but then I 

guess she'd do. 
Gran'dad he was cross sometimes, but when 

th' folks would come, 
He alius was th' first fer well — ^jes' any kind of 

fun. 



Recollections of Old Farm 33 

He'd walk into th' dinin' room an' set down in 

his chair, 
An* holler out "Don't you come in — ^you'd 

better stay out there!" 
"Guess I can eat 'bout all th' food," an' such- 
like things he'd say 
An' then he'd set ter laffin' at himself^ — was jes' 

his way. 
But don't you think we stayed out there, when 

that big barbecue 
Set beckonin' on th' table, with goose an' 

chicken, too — 
Gran'ma, an' th' wimmen folks got dinner up 

so fine; 
Them biled pertaters smashed in milk an' 

butter like sunshine — 
Termats an other garden stuff — such coffee, 

milk an tea — 
Th' way th' plates went back an' forth filled 

Gran'dad's soul with glee. 
It alius struck me funny but when a lot of 

grown up "boys" 
Meets, they get ter cuttin' up an' make an' 

orful noise. 
They come an' join th' assemblage — ^ther faces 

meek an' mum — 
But deep in each hip pocket ther's stowed a 

pint of rum! 
Then after hunger was appeased we took th' 

settin' room, 
Smokin' pipes an' strong cigars aji' tQ^lkin; 

pritty soon 



34 Sand-Burrs 

Jonty got his banjo out an' stretched her up 

ter tune; 
An' Bart Seeds danced a b'ar-dance Thanks- 
giving afternoon! 
Gran'dad seldom took a nip — but he did hog- 

killin' day, 
Fer he tried ter shuffle Juba, but his feet wan't 

built that way! 
His legs got tangled in a knot an' down he fell 

out fiat; 
But he'd clamber up a-hollerin' an' chuckin' 

up his hat! 
Th' wimmen folks would all get shocked — an* 

some of them got mad; 
But every feller in th' crowd v/as actin' jes' as 

bad. 
But howsumever, none of them wer prone to 

go too far — 
They wasn't drunk — jes' happy like — an' weak 

as mortals are! 
An' when th' fields grew pale an' cold, wrapped 

in a spread of snow, 
We milked th' cows an' done th' work — 'twas 

ten degrees below — 
Th' wimmen folks got done ther work — ^as all 

good wimmen should — 
Tlien set around an' talked old times, while us, 

yet in childhood 
Played kissin' games an' spin th' plate — it alius 

come my turn, 
Ter kiss M'Hndy — I was brave^ — ^but how me 

face would burn! 



Recollections of Old Farm 35 

An' she'd get red an' sheepish-like — 'SO dif- 

fer-Hke from some ! 
An' it took a lot of pluck fer me ter ask ter 

take her home. 



(§nthmt #0tt00^ 



Wtxthmt ^0ng0. 

THE OUT DOOR BAND. 

Strike up a tune for the fields are a-bloom, 

And luscious and ripe aire the berries! 
Hear the cuckoo's croon at the heart of noon. 

When the robins are looking for cherries ! 
Oh, sing of the Earth — ^^of its joys and mirth. 

And its green clad herbage glowing! 
There's an echoed hymn from every limb, 

Which blends with the brooklets flowing! 
So strike up the gay, brisk roundelay, 

In cheerful woodland metre. 
And the spirit of God, in leaf and sod, 

Will make our lives grow sweeter! 

MELODIE. 

The world awaits the dulcet notes 

Of dainty Someone nigh; 
And thrilling at the thought evokes. 

Glad songs across the sky. 
Each tiny, little, trembling thing 

With warm blood running rife. 
Joins in and helps the world to sing 

Her songs of Love and Life! 

39 



40 Sand-Burrs 

Her footsteps are as dancing leaves. 

Her robes are forest flowers. 
Her voice is soft — like far-off seas 

That roll through dreamland hours^ 
Her melodies are tuneful rhyme 

Wild, romping gold, her hair; 
Her touch is delicate — sublime 

As ^rose-scent in the air ! 

So lilting — tinkling is the song. 

The heart of Man unbends. 
It makes this old Earth swing along — 

The Message that She sends ! 
Oh, slender, graceful, winsome maid! 

'Tis Life and Love you bring! 
Old Earth looks brave — in green arrayed — 

To kiss your hand, dear Spring I 



THE RHODODENDRON OF THE 
DROWNED LANDS. 

I have have read in some history old, 
Of the desolate Drowned Lands ; 

Where solitude, ffever and mold, 
Lie hidden on every hand. 

And forever a mist hovers there. 
Like some desolate, shadowy death. 

And a stream flowing through this lair. 
Leaves behind it a poisonous breath, 



Outdoor Songi^ 41 

It is stated that legions of imps. 
Come flitting- about after dark — 

Strange scorpion-bats — ^just a glimpse 
Can be had by the fire-fly's spark. 

And deep in the WalkilFs gloom, 
The fair Rhododendron grows; 

Like a star o'er a desolate tomb — 
Is this beautiful laurel-leaf rose! 

Then I thought — ^as I read how it bloomed 
And seemed happy withal — that its life 

Was like a spirit that Christ had illumed, 
Out of sin, making Paradise! 

THE PROMISE. 

Who knows, when Autumn hath brushed 

swiftly by, 
With field swept bare and corn stacks rustling 

dry,^ 
And things seem wrapped in silence and 

repose — 
You find a lingering, blooming rose I 
Is it a promise for next year? Who knows? 

PERSIMMONS. 

Th' momin's gettin' frosty an' you feel's if you 

must run ; 
It's a-passin' Indian Summer an' th' winter's 

'bout begun ; 



4^ Sand-Burrs 

Corn is bein' husked an' cribbed, an' stalks 

ricked in a row^ 
Th' leaves is gone, while all around Jim Crows 

is flyin' low. 
Jersey's gettin' out her furs an' soon you'll 

hear th' drone 
Of winds a-shriekin' through th' woods; th' 

yaller pine-cone, 
Will come a-rattlin' down th' trunk fresh from 

overhead, 
An' lay all smeared with pitch upon its pine 

needle bed. 

Everything seems harvested — leastwhile farmer 

stuff. 
An' nuts an' grapes is nigh about through ; yes, 

them things' good 'nuff 
Fer folks a little pertic'lar, but by th' tarnel, I'm 
Jest a-feelin' happy — 'cause this here's 'simmon 

time! 
I go an' get a flour bag, an' whistlin' some 

good song, 
Go hustlin' orf acrosst th' fields an' take me 

dorg along. 
An' while he's huntin' rabbits hid, in th' bunch 

grass brown, 
I'm throwin' clubs up in th' tree — 'a-kockin' 

'simmons down! 



Outdoor Songs 43 



IN THE FALL OF THE YEAR. 

There's a lustre on the woods that is charming ; 

There's a glorious tint to the day. 
There's a sparkle in the rill down the side of the 
hill. 

That makes me sing and whistle on my way I 
There's a crackle in the brown meadow grasses, 

An exhilarating odor in the air. 
There seems to be a song as the day grows 
strong 

Which is echoed everywhere! 
There's a sparkle in the frost which enhances 

The morning as it dawns, which brings good 
cheer. 
But in the early sun, these diamonds everyone, 

Before his royal splendor disappear. 
Old Delaware assumes a silver lining, 

As it glides unto the ocean, far away. 
Yet I imagine I can feel salt breezes as they 
steal 

Across the East and up into the bay. 
Old Jersey's looking fine for all, in Autumn, 

She's robed in fabrics delicate and fair. 
There's a scent of salt and musk — ^from sun-up 
until dusk, 

When a heavy pineland odor fills the air! 



44 Sand-Burrs 



GOD'S MYSTERIES. 

God's mysteries lie hidden unto the careless 

eye; 
The trees and fiek\3 withhold their charms so 

delicate and shy, 
From those who scan each graceful scene with 

commonplace in heart, 
And in coarse sand fail there to view Religion, 

Love and Art! 



THE SUNRISE AND THE SUNSET GUNS 
AT THE BRIDESBURG ARSENAL. 

The sunrise gun awaken one from out a night 

of sleep. 
Its voice is strong— and the breeze that blows 

the ships across the deep 
Wafts the note from its iron throat — a long, 

sonorous roar — 
From the arsenal at Bridesburg, across to the 

Jersey shore. 

It comes when the mists hang o'er the land 

Hke a phantom of the night. 
It reaches the ear when the chanticleer heralds 

the coming light. 
It welcomes the sturdy sons of toil with the 

earliest peep of the sun. 



Outdoor Songs 45 

There's a world to stir to the business whir, 
with the boom of the sunrise gun. 

Worn with the steady toil of day and weary as 

man can be, 
I sit in the door with supper o'er — 'and a breeze 

fresh up from the sea 
Fans my brow with gentle touch, while the 

boom of the sunset gun. 
Salutes the night and the mellow light tells us 

the day is done. 

The sunset gun sounds solemn — low; its tone 

is subdued and sad. 
But the sunrise gun is sharp and clear and it 

bids the world be glad! 
But I love them both, either sad or gay — ^those 

sentinels that roar 
The time of day from Bridesburg bay, across 

to the Jersey shore. 



'LONG TH' ATLANTIC COAST. 

I'd hate to be an inlander 

Not livin' near th' coast ; 
Think 'twould be that mighty slow 

'Twould kill a feller — most. 
Jes' think of livin' in a town 

A thousan' miles from shore I 
Couldn't see no battleships 

Er hear th' breakers roar I 



46 Sand-Burrs 

Couldn't see no sailin' ships, 
No forts er lumber rafts ; 

Couldn't hear no motor-boats 
Er tugs, er 'scursion crafts. 

Couldn't go with Mar an' Par- 
Spend summer by th' shore, 

An' sit along th' beach an' talk 
'Bout politics an' war. 

Me want to be an Inlander 

An' never seein' sport? 
I need water — fresh er salt — • 

'Longside some big resort! 
Kin see th' wessels sailin' in 

From some long forrin cruise. 
I want things movin' lively-like — 

Say! What's th' latest news? 



PyARODICE. 

If life was jes' las easy, friends, as settin' in a 

boat, 
With nothin' else ter do a-tall but row an' rock 

an' float — 
An' nothin' else ter ketch but fish a-swimmin' 

in the sea — 
If no one else would like it — ^why, the job ap- 

. peals ter me! 
Old Ocean broadly smilin' an' th' sun a-shinin' 

down, 
Ships a-sailin' off th' shore an' me all tanned 

an' brown; 



Outdoor Songs 47 

Fish a-bitin* all day long, th' sky o'er head so 

blue — 
Parodice, oh, Parodice ! Say ; I'm a-callin' you ! 



DOWN IN THE PINES. 

Into the deep and sombre Jersey pines 

I glide with spectral grace; my pathway winds 

Amid scenes primeval; through wcK>dlands 

where 
God lifts the Scroll and lays His glories bare. 
Into the deep, quiet glens and o'er a way. 
Where faint — near undiscernable — ^wheel ruts 

lay; 
Strewn o'er with pine cones, a mossy, needled 

bed. 
Which gives no answer to my wheel's dett 

tread. 
The frisky rabbit, this October mom, 
As I arouse him from his scrub-oak lair, 
Starts ofif — and disappears — a phantom borne 
Along, as one might say, on naught but air. 
Each bush a fortress, screening some small 

thing — 
The woods are teeming with seed God hath 

sown. 
The tiny pattering feet — the whirring wing — 
Bespeaks a colony peculiarly God's own. 
The sun breaks through the trees and lights 

the scene 
With royal splendor * then comes a vista and 

a sheen, 



48 Sand-Burrs 

Of glittering sandy shore and sheltered lea — 
Nearby, old ocean booms eternally 1 



FAITH. 

It fell a rose's lot 

To live forgot. 

Whether the Gardener cared 
How his flowers fared — 

We know not. 

The soil was hard and dry. 

And no shade nigh. 

So this neglected flower 
In summer noonday hour 

Would nearly die. 

It drove its root, Hope-shod, 

Into the sun-baked sod, 
And lived the season through; 
How — no one ever knew — 

Except its God! 



OUT IN THE OPEN. 

Hurrah for the sport which in Jersey is found, 

With shot-gun and fishing line! 
There's game in the woods and fish in the 
Sound, 

And the deer hides deep in the pine. 



Outdoor Songs 49 

YouVe up and off as quick as you can — 

In the sharp and bracing air. 
It makes you feel like another man 

And as peart as the fleeting hare ! 

The crack of the guns and the whirring of reels 

Is sweet to my tingling ears. 
And the tawny flush that my face reveals, 

Makes life the longer by years. 

So who's for the frolicking, all-day race. 
Through forest and fields so sweet? 

It puts new grace in the pallid face, 
And a vigorous swing in the feet! 



SALUTE PARTNERS. 

Awake, ye forests, mystically swinging. 

Early in the morning, cool, damp and sweet. 
Awake, feathered songsters, be musically 
singing. 
In field, woods and cove — in marshes at my 
feet. 

Early in the morn, ^mid summertime splendor. 
Leaf, vine and sapling wet with dew; 

Diamonds by thousands — bright from the 
Sender 
Of all good things — Earth Salutes you I 



50 Sand-Burrs 

Down in the East, the sun peers great and 
golden, 
Sleepy is the woods and hazy is the sea. 
But day dawns apace — and all to God be- 
holden — 
Awake, Soul, and join in Nature's jubilee! 



Ringing Aluttg tlf^ Saab. 




TIDES. 

I watched the ocean fair in 
Its strong influx and strife; 

And murmured, half aware, "You 
Resemble robust Life!" 

But while I lingered there, lo! 

A change came like a breath; 
For back the sea did flow, and 

That resembled Death! 



Ringing Alnttg % l&mh. 

BLIND BARTIMEUS SECOND. 

A blind man basked in the sun's warm rays, 
And his locks were tossed by the breeze. 
He seemed to be humming a hymn of praise, 
That rivalled the robin's roundelays 
Up in the neighboring trees. 
And while I listened unto him there, 
I caught these words in his quaint old air: 
"Oh, Lord, while I have no sight ter me eyes- 
And them what haSj^ I don't despise — 
But I have insight t'all Thy works; 
Therefore, on my heart no shadder lurks. 
Thus, Lord A'mighty, I'm a-praisin' Thee, 
Fer enablin' me so well ter see!" 

DEO GRATIAS. 

A life worn man with a kindly face. 

Climbed a creaking attic stair; 

An sat him down on a broken chair. 
To a frugal meal in a strange, bare place. 
A cup of water and a crust of bread ! 

He clasped his hands and spoke full clear 

Words that the rich would blush to hear- 
"Thy blessing on these bounties spread!" 
53 



54 Sand-Burrs 



COMEDIE HUMANE. 

Each Day — since Ag-e began its Dawn, 

Some mystic force its actions sway. 

And that all here below might play, 
The Comedie Humane comes on. 
Each Night — ^just as in infant years. 

So that the People yet might live — 

The Curtain's one alternative^ — 
Rings down — 'mid shouts and doubts and fears. 



TO AN EASTER FLOWER. 

Azalea ! 

Name of tenderness — so fit for spirit life ! 
Frail, delicate and faint y^ou bloom 

In the bay-window — God's benison of light, 
Pours down these blustering days, dispelling 
gloom. 
Blest lamp of Heaven — of hope^ — of Paradise. 
I see thy blossoms slowly bursting forth, 

Resplendant — glorious ! A silent symphony 
Of that great work to come, when Boreas, 
North, 
Hath blown in wrath away from thee and me. 
The mellow life within those tinted flowers. 

Resembles Good; of which, each soul is part 
And blest by kindness, warmth, starts latent 
powers — 
Like Virtue-blossoms springing from the 
heart ! 



Singing Along the Road 55 



SHINING LIGHTS. 

Some human lights burn clear and bright, 

And others burn dim and low. 
Some lives, like a light on a stormy night, 

Give forth the brightest glow. 
Some lights burn, just so long as the Urn 

Is tended with care devout. 
There was never a light — be it ever so bright — 

But failed when the oil gave out ! 



HIS CREED. 

Just gold enough to ward oflf hunger's stress ; 

Strength to sing and work along each day. 
Good health — a home of peace and happiness, 

And taith to keep within the narrow way. 
To help all those who drain the bitter cup. 

With cheering words ; to live — let others live I 
When called upon, to freely offer up 

A manly life — about all one can give. 



DREAMS. 

We have dreams that come like the soft night 
air. 

In the glow of the morning sun. 
And the domes so fair rise royal and rare. 

When the scheme of the dream is spun. 
But alas for the blast which bloweth past, 

When our daylight dreams all fade; 



56 Sand-Burrs 

They crumble and fall like S'ome ancient wall. 
In their fanciful wealth arrayed. 

Fade as the sun — but never tO' lift 

From the sparkling dust of their life. 

So build oastles of clay — in the hours of day- 
For Day-dreams will never suffice. 



THE KNOWING SMILE OF GOD. 

The Leaf and the Child — born in the Spring' — 
Each come to us, a living thing. 
Both hail from the same strange Land as you — • 
(And the Mystery deepens — as mysteries do !) 
The parent Tree knew naught of the state 
Of the swelling bud when the Spring grew late. 
And the parent fond knew less of the Child — 
But God looked down on them all — and smiled I 



RESURGAM. 

There's tender sweetness in an Easter mom. 
It seems the very stillness of the air. 

And softness of the light, as it is born 

In the pale East, bespeaks a whispered 
prayer. 

One would not think it time for thoughtless 

Mirth— 

This Morn of noble memories which the 

years, 

All honeycombed with time, hath given earth. 

Through centuries of doubt, of pain and tears. 



f t n ♦ ♦ 

THE ARROWHEAD. 

Frail work of Art — lost in some by-gone day; 

How strange! Such men thy tapering sides could 
make, 
With implements so crude, in some forgotten way, 
And build thee slender — graceful — true — yet not 

to break. 
And frame Death's heritage, too, within thy silent 
wake! 



M H 





Singing Along the Road 57 

And every heart, no matter how bowed down, 
Can solace find in its sweet minstrelsy. 

Its mezzo tints and tones a quiet crown — 
A rest and comfort to the World can be. 

Ye tired, panting World! Oh, sin-sick sphere, 
Frail dot within God's Universe — how vast 

Must Heaven be, if o'er this planet here, 
Shadows still of Calvary art cast! 



MEMORIES OF HOME. 

Stir up the brands upon the open grate; 
Pile on the wood! A rousing fire create. 
The night is cold — the sirens howl and shriek 
O'er field and woods and down the roadway 

bleak. 
The snow sifts through the gables of the barn, 
And through the crib down on the yellow corn, 
But all the stock is warmly housed and fed — 
Contented with their lot is every head. 
So stir the fire and keep it burning bright; 
Be of good cheer on this cold Winter night. 
The time for family retrospect is here — 
Review events of this swift passing year. 
The fire leaps and glows — draw up your chair, 
Old father and old mother — draw them where 
The flames can ghnt upon your snow-white 

hair! 

Grandparents with grandchildren by your side — ■ 
The third generation — regarded with due pride. 



58 Sand-Burrs 

They play and romp with Jack upon the 

hearth — 
Mother and father smiHng at their mirth. 
Home scenes I love — when home with love is 

bright; 
Good cheer I love on imy Wint-er's niglit. 
So stir the flames ; old blood is growing cold ; 
Old age is passing — Yoath is growing bold I 
The long, familiar forms so old and bent. 
Crippled by toil, worn by hard tasks oft sent. 
Stand up with Youth before the family altar ; 
Ihe youngsters bov/ their heads while weak lips 

falter 
Ihe Spirit love — in silent, holy prayer, 
Blessing the heads of children gathered there. 
The open Bible — ah, that happy sight 
Fond memories of my dear old home to-night! 



THE SIGN OF THE STARS. 

When the Dark steals do^vn like a canopy from 

an opalescent sky, 
When slowly the Lamps of Night flash out in 

the dusky Lanes on high — 
When the Sleep Angel comes on pinions broad, 

vague Friars o'er the housetops call : 
"Whatever the day — the Lord sends peace — • 

and star-shine over all!" 

And so are Men's hearts in myriad ways, by 
the m.ellowing years, made bright ; 



Singing Along the Road 59 

When generous acts and lustre of Souls shine 

out in the gloom of Night. 
And a Sign, that the Lord will guide the Horde 

of Plodders along the Way, 
Are the lighted Lamps in the Heavenly camps 

that burn till the dawn of Day. 



UNKNOWN HERO. 

There are battles fought, silent thougli des- 
perate. 

In the w41ds of Earth's ramparts of sin. 
Where the victor is oftentimes vanquished, 

By foes overwhelming within. 
No clarion blares if he conquers — 

No song does he sing after strife' — 
For his voice is the gasp of the d3ring, 

Worn out with his long sacrifice. 

Oh, soldiers are given the rifle, 

And are marshalled in brilliant array ; 

And the crash of the bands and the bugle. 

Inspires them, marching away. 
But the hero of Life, is the soldier. 

Who strives with himself and his sin— ^ 
Who struggles forever in silence, 

Away from War's tumult and din. 



6o Sand-Burrs 



DAYS. 



There is no difference in days — • 

Their intricate, turbulent ways 

Are history repeating itself; 

Books from Time's own shelf — 

Taken down, dusted again ; 

Volumes of blessings and bane, 

Volumes of births and of death. 

Love of the heart and the breath. 

Volumes of hatreds and praise — 

There is no difference in days. 

Sunrise at morning — at night, 

Sunset and then pale moonhght, 

With shapeless black shadows and tears, 

With sobbings of anguish and fears. 

Ye days of the past — ye To-days — 

Alike as the stars are your ways! 



CONTENTMENT. 

Oh, why should the heart be sad, 

When the good Lord shows the way? 

Be a little child in ecstasy wild — 

Mark not the trend of the day. 

In the hand of Him is the song of tlie bird; ' 

In the rattle of wheels God's voice is heard, ^ 

So its work till dark, then home to rest 

And such is Life at its best! 



Singing Along the Road 6i 

Oh, why will you chide and fret? 

Your ills are the ills of all. 

For human kind is but designed 

To taste of the Fruit and fall. 

Lips must part and the word is spoken; 

The hand uplifts — and the bond is broken. 

Full many good deeds are done unknown — 

But alike in the dark is the bad seed sown. 

Content you with all your part, 
And shoulder the cross in sight. 
'Tis wrong to chide of the darker side 
When the best is turned from the light. 
'Tis never too late to mend one's ways. 
And the sooner started the better — it pays! 
To get on in life needs more than talk — 
So pick up your burdens — ^walk! 



THE TEST. 

Through Grief, and Pain and Poverty- 
All met with down Life's lane. 

Though up hill or down hill. 
In blessing or in bane. 

Ye faint hearts — ye strong hearts. 
Be brave, by victories won; 

Remembering the next Life 
Depends upon this one! 

Times and men are changing, 

And every living thing. 
Pursues in evolution 



62 Sand-Burrs 

Its course on rapid wing. 
Let no hard luck appall us, 

For the great God above 
Does make such things befall us, 

"to test our faith and love. 



TO BE. 

To be a man — Life's highest aim; 
Minimum weakness — maximum fame. 
Minus passion — less of strife, 
And other sordid things of Life. 
To' be a man — a mortal clod, 
Majestic in the form of God. 
Let every breath and each desire. 
Attain to something nobler — higher! 



BACK TO THE LAND. 

Back to the land of your Fathers ! 

To a living with plow and boots; 
'Tis a heritage. Men, to succor you when 

You're squeezed from other pursuits. 

Go back to the Land — and Freedom 
From the motley crowds that come; 

For the world of trade holds a coarser grade, 
Where the Blood must mix with the Scum. 

The young men surge to the cities^ 
To wage the unnatural war — 



Singing Along the Road 63 

Warping their Souls in its sordid holes 
While the Land-call rings afar! 

And the ancient Spirit is chafing, 
At the Flat-head flood's mad rush. 

While the brave frontiers of a hundred years 
Go slipping away from us. 

The Land ! The Land— go till it ! 

Btiit a shack and an acre of ground. 
It will answer your strength in a Season's 
length, 

And the lost will again be found ! 



OLD TO-MORROWS. 

The quiet hours of the night, 

Poured their softness 'round me. 

I sat communing with the past. 
And sad my Fancy found me. 

I scanned old letters that I prize, 
And 'neath the lamp's refulgence, 

I, quite alone, with intent eyes, 
Appeased my mind's indulgence. 

Those bright and witty friendly notes; 

(Albeit, some sarcastic;) 
From one to whom I ofttimes wrote. 

Gave good advice — got drastic. 



64 Sand-Burrs 

Old letters — memories — dear old past; 

We all must have our sorrows. 
I sigh and lay them down at last. 

And live in old To-morrows. 



'MID SKEPTIC THOUGHTS. 

I cannot view a face — cold, pallid, sweet — 

Though wrapped in peaceful smiles — touched 
by stern Death, 
But what a deep conviction takes her seat. 

Amid my skeptic thoughts and worldliness. 
In a dead face — ^just as the last spark goes — • 

When Life transposes to a grander chord, 
I seem to see that dying face disclose 

A faint resemblance to the living Lord! 

CREEDS. 

Thanks to Thee, God- 
After the long, abysmal Night 

To greet Cheerfulness and Day! 

The Stars alone were friendly — bright. 

Ere Dawn pursued her hopeful way 

Toward this Sod. 

But portentous Night — 

And the strange solemness of it all ! 
She cloaked the World in a Hood, 

Till I felt, 'neath its intense pall, 
As one astray in a gliostly wcxxi 
And cowered in fright. 




WRECKS 
Bie wrecks of Life and the wrecks of the Sea, \ 
Are scattered the wide World through. i 

aat the wrecks of Life seem sadder to me. 
Than the wrecks of the Ocean do. 



Singing Along the Road 6g 

Thus modern Theologies — 

Confound lay minds and brings 

Confusion and Skepticism dark, 
To Seekers for simpler things — 

While the ear is bent to hark 

For kindlier Doxologies ! 



DO YOUR BEST. 

To those who fight Life's battles — and who lose, 

Yet losing, fight the harder for success, 
Take heart! We know 'tis not for man to 
choose 
The paths he would pursue; the things 
possess. 
Make good your fight 'gainst odds right 
valiantly ; 
That God is great who notes the sparrow's 
fall; 
He watches one's efforts — futile tho' they be. 
So do your level best — if that be all. 

SHOWERS. 

I heard the rain-drops falling- 
Falling from the sky. 

They fell in streams appalling. 
But soon the storm passed by. 

Within my soul 'twas raining, 
And gloomy was the day; 

And Grief fell unrestraining — 
But storm-like, passed away. 



66 Sand-Burrs 



SHADOWLAND. 



Mistakes are shadows cast upon the wall. 

From a dim hearth, 
Which soon we see — but failed to see at all. 

Until Life set them forth. 



THE BRAVE. 

That Soul is brave 

Who dreads, yet dares Death face to face; 
Wan, trembling, sick — spurred by some subtle 

power 
Which scorns the grave ! 

Such valiant deeds each day are taking place ; 
Some win undying Fame within the hour 

And leave no trace. 

The "widow who toils 

Now reconciled, but with a love undead; 

Thin peaked face, frail form and blistered 
hands — 

But Heaven understands 
And suffers her to win a little Bread, 
And weary paths along Life's highway tread 

To kinder lands ! 

So many hearts are brave ! 

Grappling Misfortune which near prostrate 
them. 



Singing Along the Road fy^ 

Despite the jeers from thoughtless neigixbore 
hurled ; 
From evil tongues allied — 
Which send forth Venom from their meagre 

world, 
The Brave fight on — ^their standards higk 
unfurled, 
Struggling and glorified ! 



FACES. 

It's folks' wonderful faces that haunt me. 

Faces I meet every day. 
Dream-face and cruel face flaunt me, 

Like signals flung over the bay. 
And some faces look — oh, so familiar, 

Be they handsome, repulsive or fair. 
To-day I see them in Fancy — 

To-morrow I meet them somewhere! 



THE VITAL SPARK. 

The whole wide world seems cold and oh, so 
cheerless. 
But deep within the Spark glows, warm and 
bright. 
The wind sweeps down as wolves, all gaunt and 
fearless, 
Searching deep into the Wintery night. 

1 he I'are trees make obeisance to their master, 



68 Sand-Burrs 

Childless and chill they stand — those senti- 
nels, 
Straining with Fate and wrecked by chance 
disaster — 
And such is life — to feel what Fate foretells. 

'Tis thus with me; the heart, to keep from 
dying, 
Battles each day with that which claims its 
right, 
Till cold and numb, it longs to cease from try- 
ing— 
Yearns for help to stem the hopeless fight. 

'Tis well ; for years, conditions go unaltered. 
The breath of Duty chills the heart that 
yearns ; 
Through all Time past the best have paused- — 
have faltered, 
Have learned content through Fire that more 
than burns. 



THE MARINER HEART. 

Portray some lone lost mariner, adrift on the 
ocean waste, 
'Neath coppery sky, vast glassy sea — crazed 
by the water-thirst, 
Harsh cursing then faint praying for just one 
lingering taste — 
While yet his breath came fast and hot — his 
temples throb to burst — 



Singing Along the Road 69 

For sweet, life-giving water — cool water from 

some brook; 
While Hell's own torment glares from eyes 

that bear the hunted look. 
And as the very stronghold of Mind and Soul 

gives way, 
He pleads some kind Hereafter to ease his 

spent To-day. 
'Tis thus to-day, to-morrow — these scenes that 

terrify — 
No draught till Death holds forth the cup, then 

softly passes by. 

Yet hold! How fares that mariner— when 

tempests beat — the Heart? 
Living amid the tinselled scenes of light and 

human life. 
Drifting a-thirst on oceans vast — it hath no 

place, no part. 
This tiny vessel cannot stand the sea's eternal 

strife. 
Alone, yet deep surrounded by brackish things 

— its cry 
Of futility, lost peace and hope mounts ever to 

the sky. 
Oh, the unutterableness of it all! Father in 

Heaven above, 
Succor the lonely Mariner Heart that craves 

one drop of love! 



70 Sand-Burrs 

COSMIC. 

Men have fathomed the Oceans deep and vast 
and the secrets of Mountains read; 

They have measured the Earth and the ages past 
and the Planet's cosmic tread. 

They have eaten well from the Knowledge Tree. 

"Rut the Soul still flings them — Mystery ! 

THE CONVALESCENT. 

Pallid, he finds himself upon a bed and tries 
To shut out days of Fever, vague and dim. 

TVard curtained windows he turns two wishful 
eyes. 
For outside life sounds sweet and good to him. 

Docile to diet and doctor and to the medicine-call, 
Passive and thoughtful, the man now deeply 
sighs. 

Awaiting — Lazarus-like — the Miracle to fall — 
For God to take his hand and bid him — rise! 

May 5th, 1907. 



SILENTLY, WITH WHITE WINGS ALL 
FOLDED AND DRIFTING. 

Silently, with white wings all folded and drift- 
ing, 
Back from her stormy and perilous voyaging 
through buffeting seas; 



Singing Along the Road 71 

Heavily, down goes the anchor — ^^safe from all 

shifting. 
Safe in the Harbor forever and swinging the 

currents with ease. 

Silently, with white hands enfolded and smiling, 
Down with the sunset made glorious, steering 
by Heaven and stars, 
Lovingly, stands the great Future beguilding, 
Bears thee before the great Pilot who guided 
thee over the bars. 

Joyfully, and the grey morning turns golden ; 
Garb of the earth laid away, like an Autumn- 
time leaflet, to fade. 
Not mortal — immortal ! To Christ is beholden. 
The mortal made angel, in spotless white 
garment and halo arrayed. 

Gloomily, chant not! 'Nor heavy with dirging; 
Make the brass rampant! O, Heavenly Or- 
chestra, ceaselessly playing by rote. 
Distantly, play a great Largo, majestically 
merging — 
Or fading away in the distance — there sob- 
bingly dying each note. 

Life after Death — Death after living; 

Soul of the flesh made immortal by contact 
with earth — but Christ first! 
Graves are but holes spread apart fOr the dust 
of thy giving; 
Heaven! the infinite place of thy spirit — 
when finished each duty due Earth ! 



72 Sand-Burrs 



MARCH OF THE GOLD CORPS. 

Hark to the world's mad reveille! 

Its tocsin sounds across the years; 
Transfixed, we stand and silently 

We hear with awe what Heaven hears. 
The vast, wild rout of Spirit dead; 

The whirl of savage splendor palls. 
We lead not others but are led, 

Barbaric incense 'round us falls! 

And who shall time the maddened pace? 

The Sun, prophetic, lights the days 
When in the grim, the groveling rax:e, 

The earth shall hunger for its rays. 
Oh, good green earth — so strong — so sweet! 

Yet, not, alas, world without end. 
As meteors from the sky you greet 

The new years that the Heavens send. 

There leaning 'gainst the massive gate, 

Counting the mournful moments off, 
We see One sadly hesitate — 

Or hear the Fallen Angel scofif, 
While Panorama reels below. 

We see the pigmy Nations strive, 
And as the sparrow falleth, so 

We see the fallen people writhe. 

And all the gamuts ever run — 

And all the Creeds that Earth did kti^v/ — 



Singing Along the Road 73 

Are pitiful the more; begun 

Beneath the sign that makes them so. 
The herald angels chant no more; 

(Their song is mercenary — low.) 
And gospels lack that brave encore — 

Save as the glittering dollars flow. 

Like rowing 'gainst the flooding tide. 
With golden rocks on either hand. 

And wearily, here to abide, 

One tugs to reach the Promised Land 

That borders on Eternity; 

Then, last hope of that fitful band, 

They turn and drift down with the sea. 

For oh, these days — these Golden Days — 

These days and deeds of Dollar mad — 
Gx)ld pathways seem the only ways 

Religion, Man and Devil had. 
But yet we walk with God, they say; 

Ah, yes; but not o'er paths He trod. 
The world trails o'er a strange new way — 

Behind the Golden Cross — ^^its Godl 



^IjarjijS attb MutB. 



JERSEY— A TOAST. 

From far Weehawken to Manasquan, 
From Tuckaho^ to Matteawan, 
From Sandy Hook to old Cape May, 
From Barnegat to Delaware Bay — 
Here's to the Jersey that you all know; 
With her coast resorts where millions go. 
They flock from old 'Thilly/' ISTew York and 

the West, 
And while some blame her and game her, all 

name her — the Best ! 

JERSEY SHAD. 

The shad may be, as Kipling says, "a porcupine 
turned inside out," 

And one must mind his P's and Q's when he 
eats this husky trout. 

From far and nigh the people hie with expecta- 
tions glad, 

And hundreds flock to wharf and dock to buy 
the Jersey shad. 

77A 



77B Sand-Burrs 

The planked shad's known to Banqueteers from 
Manhattan 'cross to ^Thilly;" 

Fond memory leads to Gloucester's park — whose 
patron saint is ^'Billy !" 

'Tis there he's caught by thousands — like the 
suckers used to be, 

When the Track was doing business with its 
daily matinee. 

There's bigger fish do^vn deep below, with 
cousins in the pools; 

But Jersey shad are tastey fish — are taught and 
caught in schools. 

"No codfish aristocracy lurks in his features sad, 

And he walks the plank a hero — does the tooth- 
some Jersey shad! 



THE SCALE OF THE SCARLET SKIN. 

A Soulful Ballad of How I Lost My Suit on 
Appeal. 

They put me in hock 'cause I had scarlet fever ; 

And several times, fellers, I'd planned to va- 
moose. 

But my nurse kept close watch so I couldn't 
well leave her. 

And my doctor kept saying : "One week more — 
you'll be loose !" 



Sharps and Flats 'J'jC 

My friends all wrote letters — some kind and 

some funny; 
One fellow sent word, in a style fresh and 

breezy : 
"Been playin' wid kids, eh ? E'ow, Connor, old 

chummy, 
Gk> git a man's sickness — I'm ashamed yer so 

easy !'' 



A month to a day (three days sick as the devil !) 
The rest of the time — how I lived — ^memory 

sickens. 
I read, wrote and smoked, till I swear — on the 

level — 
My backbone and brain were as numb as the 

dickens ! 

"You must get that old skin off before you can 

leave — see V 
Doc's edict rang forth with professional zeal ; 
*' 'Tis a skin game ?" quoth I, ^^and I'm wise — 

just believe me ; 
Skinned alive ain't so nice — so I think I'll 

appeal !" 

So I started to peel by bathing in creolin ; 
I had cuticle to burn and soon skinned to the 
gristle. 



y7T> Sand-Burrs 

I read proof on my book — while anointed witli 

vaseline, 
And now inside and out — I'm as clean as a 

whistle ! 

Oh, the thoughts that I thunk — ^they were sad, 

gay and witty, 
The month that my liberty and me was in hook. 
And I lost my best suit — and a job — more's the 

pity, 
The latter don't matter — ^but the first was a 
shock ! 



THE EMPTY CABIN. 

Her lips need mo' dan kissin' fo' t' make her 

black face smile; 
An' mah h'art no sorrow's missin' night er day. 
Fo' de days an' nights am tearful spite o' sun 

an' starshine cheerful, 
To' mah sweetheart's gone an' lef me — went 

away ! 

Mah soul'U no mo'U be singin' f o' I'll nevah see 

her smile; 
An' de lilacks miss her standin' nigh de do'. 
Hit's lonesome in de cabin what we two so 

long's ben habin', 
To' no mo' I hyar her footsteps 'crosst de flo'. 



Sharps and Flats 77E 

De cawn rows seem so lonely es de plow done 

drag ercross; 
Mall voice doan ring out lond befo' hits light, 
An' de dinnah hawn ain't tootin' er her voice 

mah ears salutin', 
An' I lie awake a-weepin' all de night. 

Fo' she's gone — ^gone — ^gone — an' I dunno what 

ter do; 
O'ny Gabri'l's hawn'U wake her, but she's 

saved — praise God on high ! 
An' her ole man keep a-workin' twell he ^it de 

bizness through — 
When he meet his dear ole woman by-en-by. 




CAMERA GIRL ON THE BOARDWALK 



Tell me, winsome Camera Girl, across these pages 

beaming, 
With arch-poised head and angel face beneath the 

sunshade gleaming. 
Tell me if you'd dare take me— despite the fact I m 

married. 
(Benedicts for ages past have hopeless Love s shafts 

parried!) 
Oh, pretty girl— rare soulful face! How magazmes 

all laud it; 
And here you come with fairy grace to wm my 

humble plaudit. 
I've caught you with the Press and Pen — but, ah, 

you've caught me napping, 
For while I rant about you here— you've up and 

done the snapping! 



Sharps and Flats ^J'J 



LONGIN' FOR SUMMER. 

In the dim and distant future when the months 

have rolled around, 
And the sun in all his power makes the roots 

stir underground, 
I will write a gladsome chorus of the far-off 

sum'merland. 
And will hit the pike for Wildwood — ^join the 

bunch upon the strand! 

I'tti just longin' for the summer and them 

swelterin', good old days. 
When a feller gets the "springos" while ab- 

sorbin' humid rays. 
Days when men go baseball crazy — is them 

dreamy afternoons — 
Eatin' peanuts, drinkin' soft-stuff — holler in' like 

a lot of loons ! 

I'm feelin' sad and chilly as the winter breezes 

blow. 
And I think of other climates where the peach 

and orange grow. 
I can view the beach at Tampa from a sort 

of mental haze, 
And I see the sumimer lassies with their fellers 

in to bathe. 



78 Sand-Burrs 

I see coatless, cultured magnates fishin' 'neatli 

their broad rimmed hats, 
And a lot of summer boarders — summer girls 

with white cravats. 
Oh, they're passin' golden hours m such lazy, 

sweet repose, 
While I'm grindin' here all winter — ^just to 

earn me board and clothes ! 

It's Winter in the Northland, but it's summer in 

the South. 
I set here dreamin' at me desk — old pipe stuck 

in me mouth — 
I'm chilly and the fire's low — dod drat this 

bloomin' rhyme; 
Think I'll quit and go to bed — 'and sleep till 

summertime ! 



LONGFELLOW VS. CONNOR ON 
ARROWS, 

I shot an arrow in the air — 
Alas ! It came down in my hair. 
How like Ambition — was its bent— 
To "fall down" just as it was sent ! 



DOPE. 

Under my lamp when the shadows grow, 
Beside the grate where the live coals glow, 
My dog stretched out on the rug at ease, 




/\^ (r-o'^<:>tf^...x^^ 



Sharps and Flats 79 

And the cold winds roaming among the trees. 
My corn-cob pipe and Virginia weed, 
Pencil and pad and books to read. 
Tis then that my Fancies around I invoke. 
And it's millions of dollars I'm worth — in 
smoke 1 



THE MAN FROM OYSTER BAY. 

They can talk of this man Cicero, of Plato and 

the rest, 
That History crowned with laurel wreaths as 

fellers we love best — 
They can chant high-sounding Paens for those 

valorous chaps of old — 
But the record of "Our Teddy" 
Is written out in gold. 

He knows all fundamental things and cures 2II 

Cabinet ills. 
He's a gallant in the ballroom and a hunter in 

the Hills. 
He's a "piker" wlien the people pike and a 

soldier filled with pride — 
He's the really, red-hot article — ■ 
And something on the side! 

He loves his wife and family and he criticizes 

books ; 
He knows some Jiu Jitsu so he's handy with his 

"hooks." 



8o Sand-Burrs 

He speaks a little Spanish and some French — 

few old times' sake — 
But the power of his English, 
Well, it simply takes the cake ! 

He talks to "Bill" and "Mike" and "Jim" and 

to the kid-gloved gent; 
He swings the Big Stick with a smile that's 

straight from Glory sent. 
"De-lighted," stands for something warm and 

makes us all opine, 
The sun do move in Washington — 
With "Teddy" down the One. 

Sound loud the Horn o* Glory for the "Real 

Thing's" here to stay; 
He's brought the _goods 'long with him — so 

don't get in the way. 
He's got the spinal column of a Spartan — that's 

no blufif. 
And the people call him "Teddy" 
And "Teddy" is the stuff! 

His words and works are listened to through 
all the bloomin' land; 

And he's held the peace of Nations in the hol- 
low of his hand. 

He's the pride of all Creation with his hustlin' 
Yankee way; 

Dog-gone it— we're D-E-L-I-G-H-T-E-D 

With the Man from Oyster B«ayl 



Sharps and Flats 8i 



THE MAN IN OLD NEW J. 

(After reading Editor Connor's "Man From 
Oyster Bay" in Philadelphia North American, 
Sunday, April 7, 1907.) 

Perhaps I am afflicted with "exaggerated ego," 
Or mayhap I have a "Brain Storm" from alpha 

to omega 
At any rate I'm bustin' to sing my little lay — 
For I'm just gone plumb distracted o'er the 

man across the way! 

While, the people howl for "Teddy" and they 

load him down with fame, 
There's a man across the river, who on glory 

has a claim; 
For he just sits still and scribbles, and each 

scribble holds a thrill, 
And he gets right at our heart strings as he 

shoves his tuneful quill. 

When he sends a foot of metre a chasin' 'long 

the way, 
Then work is turned to pleasure and the night 

is turned to day ; 
And I just get up and holler — ^there aint no 

other way — 
For I own I'm some excited o'er the man in old 

New J.! 

He has shoved old Rudyard Kipling, right up 
smack against the wall; 



82 Sand-Burrs 

And the other bloomin' poets — they aint got no 

show at all! 
For he simply juggles rhythm like it weren't no 

more than play — 
Consarn it, I've gone dippy o'er the man in old 
New J.! 

— C. E. Murray, 
Germantown, Phila., Pa. 



THE ENGINEER'S DOXOILOGY. 

A factory whistle is my call and beck; 
Each day I toil in oil up to my neck. 
At noon, I eat my grub in some oild place, 
And sop it down into my "hungry-space," 
With stimulating swigs of "eyev/ash" (tea); 
And as I toil oh, Lord, I'm praisin' Thee. 
(Never let your praise begin with d — .) 
And this my satisfaction — ^as I toil. 
Begrimed and greased with many kinds of oil; 
I lubricate my pipes — down here below. 
And sing: "Praise him from whom oil Bless- 
ings flow!" 



THE LAND OF NEWS. 

Oh, the morning paper's a lookin'-glass, 
Throug'h which the people prance. 
You view the throng as it jogs along, 
In Life's wonderful game of Chance. 



Sharps and Flats 83 

It*s filled with gossip, rich and rare; 
With Crime, Deceit and Booze. 
It's a wonderful band — goes hand-in-hand, 
In the beautiful Land of News ! 



MAGAZINE "POULTRY" 

Oh to simmer away — 

In the slobbering silence of Sorrow! 
Oh to be gifted with Gab, 
In a s-omnolent circuit of Drab — 

(Like the Filligree work of To-morrow) 
So as to simmer To-day! 

Could I but simmering, say — 
With the rip and dip of Golden Drip — ' 

Like the rushing and gushing of slush — > 

Or a bucket of Mumbling Mush, 
Through Life's Sluice-way gracefully Slip — > 

Would that I simmer that way! 

If I could simmer a Lay — 

Not in the Gurgling GloOm, 
But like Magazine Poets austere, 
Who Bubble and Blubber like beer — 

Thus would I simmer so soon! 

Then let me simmer and cook. 

Wabbly-mouthed and wild-eyed. 
But this is enough — get the Hook — 

This "Poultry's" too tough to be fried! 



84 Sand-Burrs 



COALESCENCE. 

Slam it in, jam it in, cram it in the grate; 
Twenty tons in twenty weeks — that's style at any 

rate! 
Hustle it in the heater door — rake out ashes so, 
Keep the heater roaring while the Wintery 

breezes blow! 

Shovel it in a ton a week — must keep the 

boarders warm — 
Set the house on fire then turn in the burglar 

alarm. 
The cellar's full of cinders and diggin' is such 

fun, 
I love to swing the shovel so we'll get another 

ton ! 

The heat roars up the chimney and the bricks 

keep warm and nice; 
We try to keep the attic warm, for sundry rats 

and mice. 
We heat the roof for sparrows too — a foolish 

thing I'll own — 
But Winter's awfully pleasant in this bloomin' 

temp'rate zone! 

It's up and down the cellar stairs with shovel 

and with "scut," 
It's coaling up and coaling down — now ain't 

this cussed luck? 



Sharps and Flats 85 

The only time the house gets warm is in the 

summertime — 
But really, we're so happy in this glorious 

tem'rate clime! 

I don't mind doing ten hour's work and various 
extra chores ; 

I'll get the tubs on wash-days or go errands to 
the stores. 

But I'm growing sick of anthracite — and cer- 
tainly hope and pray, 

I'll have some rest on heavin' coal — ^this side 
o' Judgment Day! 



QUOTA. 

Society may use bad French, 

And other folks use what they please. 
But none — from scribe to legal bench — 

Can quote one line of pure Chinese! 



WAR. 

Oh, Cupid's charming and he's cute; 
(With Dan we've all had dealin's.) 
He travels in a bathing suit, 

Creating funny feelin's I 
He's sly — the rascal — when he's gay; 
(Far be it to disparage.) 
His "striking matches" light the way. 
To F(r)iction after marriage! 



86 Sand-Burrs 



SONG OF THE PLODDERS. 

There is an old codger who travels these here 

wilds, 
With a healthy love for Nature and a system 

full of smiles. 
He trots along ter bizness late and early every 

day; 
Comes a-slidin' 'long the pavement just along 

about this way : 

Jog-trot-dog-trot-git there Jim; 

Pockets full o' nothin' but a system full o' 
vim. 

Ragged old britches and his head helt 
high— 

Jog-trot-dog-trot — me-oh-my ! 

This old Mister Git There's got a yaller sort 

o' friend, 
Who's a-waggin' or a-barkin' first at this or 

t'other end. 
He's shaggy and he's baggy but he trots along 

the street, 
Behind his aged master — and they're powerful 

hard to beat. 

For it's hop-scotch — ^top-notch — jog-along- 
old pair. 

Crippled up couple skip a-long and you'll 
git there ! 

Ragged old comrades with your heads helt 
high— 

Dog-trot — man-trot — me-oh-my ! 



Sharps and Flats 87 

Gdn' to work at seven and a-comin' home at 

night, 
I find myself a-gazin' for me friends to heave 

in sight. 
They're joggin' on so steady-like, but someday 

Dad will fail. 
And then there'll be nobody for to fill the 

dinner-pail. 

So it's click-clack— to-and-back-kick-erlong 
somehow ; 

Daddy, dog and dinner in their daily pow- 
wow. 

Ragged old toiler with system g-ood and 
stout— 

Keep-a-workin'-Daddy-and-someday-you'll- 
win-out ! 



TOUCHED. 

She gave me a flower: 

It was a pretty thing to do — 

With a smile and a jest. 

She pinned it on my breast, 
Flitting off^ with a word or two. 

Dear maid, you did not think- 
In doing that Httle part. 

As on my breast 

Your hand you pressed 
You touched my heart. 



Sand-Burrs 



THOUGHT WAVES. 

Oh why does she stare at the windows. 

As she travels the busy street? 

It cannot be that Vanity 

Is the cause of her blase conceit. 

But I notice she's constantly glancing 

At the form in the window-glass ; 

And I must confess that its nothing less 

Than Heaven — to see her pass. 

"Such a pretty face 'neath a sunshade," 

The windows all declare; 

But she looks with pride — I'm satisfied- 

At the Marcel waves in her hair. 



ABOUT THE "SIZE" OF IT. 

Miss Mufifett stepped off of a Pullman car, 

Dainty, demure and pretty. 

She's down at the shore for a week or more, 

Fresh from the Quaker City. 

(It's hash-house for hers and a cot for a bunk. 

So why in the world did she bring a big trunk?) 

But howsomever, she looked plump and trim. 

In her rig of white and a "sailor" ; 

By the Ime of talk she hands out on the Walk — 

We know that her nerve won't fail her. 

(And the trunk held a wonderful bathing suit ; 

Did she make a "splash ?" Hoot ! Mon, Hoot ! 



Sharps and Flats 89 

THE BURDEN OF THEIR SONGS. 

The merdhant sat at his office desk, 

In the hot and sultry town. 
With sleeves rolled up and unbuttoned vest, 

He jotted his memos, down. 
His clerks looked warm, but clean and neat, 

As his model clerkship should-^ 
And they pitied the workers out in the street, 

And talked of the shore and wood. 
But they pitied the farmer out in the sun — 

Those city folks — over everyone. 

But the farmer sat in his big- porch chair, 

In the cool of the dusk, at rest. 
In a clean white shirt and with well-groomed 
hair, 

And minus his coat and vest. 
He g-azed o'er his fields so wavey and fair. 

And drowsy his head sank down: 
"Don't see how they stand it~away off there 

In the witherin' and scorchin' town!" 

THE PACE THAT KILLS. 

If folks would do their part each day. 

Not loiter — idlin' time away — 

The world would better fare. 

The sloth what sits and dreams within. 

Builds castles of a Might-Have-Been, 

[Won't never get nowhere. 



90 Sand-Burrs 

The dwadlln' throng what sits and whine, 

Soon lose their pride in frenzies fine — 

Dallyin' in a Chair. 

They watch the hurrryin' people pass — 

Reflected through the winder-glass, 

And rail 'bout Fate with conscience sore 

While chances pass their very door — 

They'll never land nowhere. 

Do somethin'; be somethin'; up and about! 

Shake yerself — get in the Game ; 

You'll find more chances hustlin' out 

Than ever through yer doorway came. 

By hustlin' get yer share. 

A man must work — if he would eat, 

And hold his head up on the street. 

For human ills — look out — beware 

Of that enticin' rockin'-chair ! 



A FALLEN STAR. 

I sat among yon unkempt gods o' the gallery, 
As democratic and as proud as they. 

A favorite star thus hypnotized my salary, 
She, 'twas announced, a leading role would 
play. 

The orchestra blared forth 'mid regal splendor, 
As in the ancient famed and modern lore, 

And carried forth from me, the ardent sender, 
Love to the devotees of Terpsichore. 



Sharps and Flats 91 

Long had I waited to behold this maiden, 
Sweet sylph of grace and nymph from sylvian 
shores, 
And, Hke all youths, I, light of head, unladen 
With base coin, was likewise short on other 
worldly stores. 

Yet, when I viewed her many charms beguiling, 
Arrayed in naught but smile and fluffy gown, 

Strong, lithe of limb, with classic face all smil- 
ing, 
I reverently and lowly bowed me down. 

Oh, when I saw her charms in deepest sorrow, 
I yet applauded her with seeming zest. 

I sighed, for well I knew that ere the morrow 
That pretty star would hustle ofif out West. 

But, heavens ! for a high and bold emprise, 
No flattering review the paper had! 

But there she was — to my intense surprise — 
Chief factor in a patent medicine ad! 



SNAPPERS. 

Kodak Jack he bought a kodak — 

'Twas a handsome thing to look at 

And he snapped up everything that 

Did draw breath ! 

He had quite a large collection 

Of pictures toned to choice perfection. 



92 Sand-Burrs 

Off-sets of the world — ^till one grim 
Snapper came — and lo, it took Mm — 
It was Death! 



IF- 

If each endeavor made was for the best; 
EHminating from our lives coarse jest. 
If Conservatism — Dignity — held sway — 
How pure would be each bloody, bloomin' day ! 



"SURE THING." 

"You're travellin' 'long too fast and strong 

Young feller," the old man spake. 

"You'd best open yer eyes, for a Man with a 

Scythe 
Is dodgin' along yer wake !" 
"You say you don't care if the feller's there? 
He's a thousand-to-one-shot, Jack; 
It's no use ter balk for he'll win in a walk — 
And he'll rule you off the Track — 
Some day — he'll rule you off the Track !** 



ATTIC FLIGHTS. 

Grandma's attic — large, ungainly 

I recall it, oh, so plainly, 

Shingles warped and rafters strangely 

Fashioned; and its stifling air. 



Sharps and Flats 93 

Garments hung there — old and musty. 
Trunks with locks and hinges rusty; 
Four-post bedsteads high and dusty 
Stood in solemn silence there. 
Faded roses in a bonnet — 
Quaint as some old Frenchman's bon mot 
With some war-time gimcracks on it — 
Interesting, I'll allow, 
Were the joys of garret treasures, 
When I lingered 'mid its pleasures — 
But this life of sterner measures 
Keeps me in the basement now! 



HARD LABOR FOR LIFE, 

A man may meet luck opportune, 

And this his status well advances. 
But all tides turn — the world is strewn — 

With wrecks of men who took bad chances. 
So take no welts from Fortune's goad, 

But learn the worth of thrift and labor. 
Most wealth that is by chance bestowed 

Soon slips your erstwhile lucky neighbor. 



WHO'S A-SLANDERIN' US? 

Some folks has got a strange idea that can't be 

understood- 
By such a chap like me — they say tliat Jersey 

ain't no good. 



94 Sand-Burrs 

Now people wants to travel more — ^that's head 
and tail to it ; 

IVe never seen a single State ter beat old Jer- 
sey yit ! 

I guess them Braves were satisfied — 'bout this 

time o' year, 
Ter smell th' juice of yaller pine while huntin' 

th' red deer, 
And squaws a-pickin' teaberries and I 'low 

'simmons, too, 
'Long our cricks and rivers in ther taperin' 

bark canoe. 

I 'spose they shot ther arrers 'crost by yonder 

house of brick, 
And squaws has baked ther corn-bread along 

old Cooper crick — 
Them Braves found Jersey good 'nufif — as 

simple as they be; 
If she was good 'nuff fer them — sKe^s good 

'nuff fer me ! 

And then, here's all our coast resorts — inspirin' 

— lively — fair ; 
Good fishin', gunnin' and sportin' fer folks from 

everywhere ! 
Wish I didn't get "huffy," but I'd like ter ketch 

the cuss 
Who's sayin' Jersey ain't n'o good — and so 

a-slanderin' us ! 




The War Correspondent receives hurry orders to 
report for home duty. 




The War Correspondent receives hurry orders to 
report for home duty. 



Sharps and Flats 95 



FLIRTING WITH GLORY. 
(Or, The Murderer's Revenge.) 

Whene'er I scan the book reviews, 

And see the author's faces, 
Read sketches of their Uves and hear 

Their names in pubUc places — 

I have an incHnation for 

To write a plaj^ or story; 
Until I find its wasting time 

For me to flirt with glory. 

The best that I can do "ain't much"; 

(It's all here in this volume) 
I'd best to write straight news where I 

Can murder by the column! 



Did ever you folks of this latter day, 
Read local facts — in a casual way? 
Well, if you haven't, I'll just recite — 
Providing my memory serves me right — 
Of an incident which I hear, is true, 
Occurring in sixteen thirty-two. 
Not because I was there, you knoAv, 
But Gordon's New Jersey says it's so— 
Not him alone — for other proof 
Have I; so hold not yourself aloof. 



96 Sand-Burrs 

I'll speak right out in a brazen way. 
In a hazy, historical, antique lay. 

The political Outfit, then, as now. 

Was just as Kean to start a row ; 

There were "Davys," and "Franks" and "Wes- 

leys,'* too — 
But jobs were scarce and franchises few. 
The Indians were "skinned" in the same old 

way, 
That the poor old voter is "skinned" to-day. 
They stood 'em up — made 'em produce. 
Then shook 'em down — but what's the use? 

'Twas long- ago — as I stated before — 

When De Vries sailed from far Holland's shore; 

And after some weeks saw the Delaware — 

Leading to Trenton's political lair. 

Home of the P. S. C. bugbear — 

And this is none of your anecdotes. 

Told on the river ferryboats ! 

Now, previous to his visit here — 

In sixteen twenty-one — the year. 

Another guy — Jacobus Mey — 

Sailed up along the wide mouth bay. 

And built a fort of rough hewn logs, 

'Mid Smith's malarial 'skeeter bogs, 

Forninst Sassackon — now Timber Creek-^ 

Of Congressional import — so to speak. 

And soon a thriving settlement 

Grew 'neath the log fort battlement. 

But Captain Mey, be it deplored, 





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Sharps and Flats 97^ 

Inspired by lands yet unexplored, 

Sailed off one morn, his crew wifh him, 

And left the voters to sink or swim. 

We might state here — beyond a doubt — 

The pesky 'skeetors drove him out. 

So, honestly, your scribe believes. 

When "Davy" Pieterson De Vries 

Arrived up here in 'thirty-two. 

Things were in a hulla-balloo. 

The Injuns chased the pale-face man. 

Were running the fort on a native plan: 

"Politics cuts no ice with us — 

We're out to bust the bloomin' trusts !" 

Bad wMskey — politics and rum — 

Had already started to make things hum! 

Now, David Pieterson De Vries, 
A wise politician, tried to please. 
So Divine pirotection first implored, 
Tlien unloaded them and their small board. 
"Now hustle, voters, for your board ; 
It's me for home — I'll quit this land." 
And he left Giles Osset in command. 
This done, as none but heroes should. 
He "beat it" while his souls were good! 
And Giles, to further clinch his claim — 
Aspiring to Gubernatorial fame, 
Procured a ponderous piece of tin, 
With paint and brush did there begin 
State General arms to paint thereon, 
'Mid wonder of the hangers-on. 
It v/as a gaudy piece of art, 



98 Sand-Burrs 

But sfiure, it pleased Gile's pompous heart. 
"So far, so g'ood," Boss Osset said ; 
"Now subjects," high above my head, 
This great device must tear the sky — 
So dip yer nuts as you pass by !" 
Forthwith, they dug a mighty hole, 
And planted a public service pole. 
His emblem Giles did hang thereon, 
And viewed it glinting in the sun 
They fired cannons from the fort — 
Then banqueted on krout and pork. 
They savvied it 'mid stranger rites, 
And hit the booze for many nights. 
And proud Giles Osset, said, " 'tis well ; 
Folks passing by our sylvan dell, 
Will see that piece of real estate, 
And say, "now that's what we call great; 
That politician's quite au fait — 
We'll ask him for us to legislate." 

But it so chanced, that while the rites 
Of state were rampant, to see the sights, 
A red Fishtowner came — beheld on high- 
The glowing symbol in the sky. 
Grew stuck on it and had pipe-dreams — 
(Dope was common then, it seems.) 
He straightway shinned the trolley pole, 
And played the heavy villian role, 
For he battered down the bloody tin, 
Giles was out while he was in. 
Impelled by gain and native stealth. 
Unconscious of its local wealth — ' 



Sharps and Flats 99 

And likewise of endangered healtH. 
"Ugh; make good teepee — not get wet; 
Dutchman heem be mad — I bet!" 
He chuckled some — and maybe laughed — 
And this was called, first Jersey graft! 

"What's young Pokomoke got?" they cried^ 
As the Fishtowner mingled with his tribe. 
And proudly Pokomoke displayed 
The fruits of his late escapade. 
The Bucks all crowded to the 'fore, 
Trampling corns and bunions sore, 
To see and touch the tin all busted. 
And also bent and likewise rusted. 
"I'll go and get this thing in hidin' — 
Here's hopin' all the paint has Drydin!" 

"Poke, yer caug'ht with the goods — but have no 

fear,'^ 
A slick squaw whispered in his ear. 
But Poke's old father spake: "My son, 
We fear that pale-face son-of-a-gun ; 
So go you back — 'twill well befit 
To take that junk where you found it.** 
"Now, Daddy, after all my skill, 
I'd hate to cross your generous will, 
But I shall keep this strange thing here. 
And make it into scuttles for beer — 
Why Billy Penn would pay me well 
For this old junk — so. wattel?" 
Tlius spake the wayward youth and you 
Just mark the trouble it did brew. 

LOfC, 



loo Sand-Burrs 

Thus the first offense within our borders, 

Of disobeyin' "Davy's" orders ! 

And as the Bosses' threats oft hurt, 

Poke bared his arm and waved the Red Shirt I 

Just six days later from the date, 

When Pokomoke swiped the anus of State, 

Giles Osset, out of sorts and blear, 

The dire effects of too much soft stuff. 

Stood on the fort \vith shaded eyes, 

Gave unprintable exerps of surprise, 

Which soon brought the ward heelers 'round, 

Attracted by the funny sound. 

At first, in the uncertain light, 

Giles thought he must have second sight. 

But as he gazed, tt stronger grew. 

That his first sight was — alas, too true. 

"Who dared to steal them arms of State?" 

Roared out the would-be potentate. 

"Yer arms? Why, huUy gee!" they cried; 

They're hangin' there, forninst yer side. 

It's time you used 'em some, old sport. 

Instead of bummin' 'round the fort!'* 

Giles strode up to his loud-mouth men. 

As though to place the guilt on them. 

But they were wise and rushed about. 

Swearing they'd find the critter out. 

And sure enough, they found the tent, 

With young Poke snoring in content. 

They went to Giles in blest relief ; 

"Yer Royal Knobs, we've found the thief.** 

"Well, boys, yer on yer jobs alright — 



Sharps and Flats ioi 

How's things in the old Twelfth ward to- 
night?" 
And thus 'tis shown beyond a doubt, 
How "B'ys, I'm wid ye's !" first came out! 

Then straightway Giles called all his bunch. 

With glittering arms, and gave them lunch. 

He sent a tout to the Fishtown band, 

Stating he had a deal on hand. 

The drums rolled forth an awful din, 

The bugles blared, the fort looked grim, 

Giles Osset, on the ''first black horse," 

Impressively came dashing forth. 

All dressed in armor ; then his train 

Of stuflers, dressed in ponderous chain, 

A battery of cannon queer, 

Followed in wagons used for beer. 

Their martial tread they then renewed, 

And every living thing skiddooed. 

Sly foxes and squirrels that scampered round, 

All beat it for the higher ground. 

And this part, reads the lines between, 

The Organization's first Machine, 

"That dog of yours, that knave — that thief," 
Giles cried unto the Fishtown chief, 
'T here demand on pain of death — '* 
"All Arabia and Persia helt their breath!" 
Then Osset told, with potent fire. 
The sin committed. His awful ke 
Pufifed his fat face and made him look 
Like some lobsters in a picture book. 



102 Sand-Burrs 

Immediately a search was made. 
And Pokomoke was sore afraid. 
Old Poke lay low While turmoil dim 
From out the camp was borne to him. 
Giles grew more wroth and finally said, 
''The penalty shall be his head; 
The morrow's rising sun shall see 
What vengeance of Giles Osset be!" 
Dog-gone the luck — this line displaces, 
The fate of those who ''kick the traces !" 

Giles' bunch returned. And through the air 

The wailing notes of wild despair 

Went here and there and everywhere. 

"Alas, my son, the old chief cried, 

As Pokomoke stalked to his side, 

"The welfare of our ward — the price — 

Is but your good-for-nothing life! 

Boss Osset wants your scalp — ^but I 

Can hold your job down when you die." 

And then the old man clubbed him down, 

And took the scalp from ofif his crown — 

Then called on Osset at sundown. 

Now the "Old Man" calmed, when first 

apprised. 
Looked somewhat sorry and surprised: 
"Such sacrifice is past belief — 
I only meant to bluff the thief. 
I take things, too — before and after — 
He's got talent — that red-skinned grafter! 
So chief, return unto your band — 
Hold down yer job — don't show yer hand — 



Sharps and Flats 103 

When somethings doin' and yer up a tree, 
Dave uster hand that talk to me !" 

"Use yer frien's when the enimy can't; 
Make each new-comer a saint er a scamp. 
Turn down all beggars by snub er quarrel, 
Then trot out yer candidate an' tap his "barT\ 
If yer henchmen are easy — why on the level, 
They'll fight for the leavin's like the devil. 
Have a murder er two — 'tis sound advice. 
As Gang politics shouldn't be nasty-nice. 
Prosecutors and Judges may come and go — 
But if there's anything doin' — we must know. 
Drunks to the Court House are constantly crusin', 
(The Gang takes the basement for its bit o' 

boozin'.) 
Youse kin fool all the people who don't know yer 

face, 
But youse can't fool 'em twice in the same old 

place. 
Cause this here man Roosevelt is stirrin* the 

Voters, 
And soon we won't have even the floaters. 
Gang politics has taken a terrible plunge, 
And half of the Big Ones are sucking the 

sponge." 
Thus giving vent to his philosophy clear, 
Giles went to bed and pounded his ear. 

Giles was a tight wad and disgusted many; 
Never bought a ball ticket or lent a penny. 
And the Jersey woods are full of 'em, too — 
Political barnacles — not worth a sou. 



104 Sand-Burrs 

And this kind of mullet, this flat-head grafter, 
Is the specie that Roosevelt and the people are 

after. 
They won't run on a ticket because t'would be 

slaughter — 
They won't run on a ticket — but by Heavens, 

they oughter ! 
Their jobs are all "places" and they tickle each 

other, 
Till each miserable sucker is pulled in under 

cover. 
The wheels spin around and the Touts all salaam, 
So its under the sink — and the people be damn I 

And mournful was the Fishtown tribe; 
"Oh, holy s?noke !" the voters cried. 
"Poke gave his life, but vengeance deep 
Hath roused Reformers from their sleep." 
And loudly in their tents they swore, 
They wouldn't vote for Giles no more. 
"They're a bunch of pale-face stiffs alright, 
And we'll skin 'em the next primary fight; 
Big Chief for Sheriff — and to all intents, 
We'll make Giles look like thirty cents !" 
Then loud the war-dance rang afar; 
Played popular songs on the guitar — 
These are facts I'm handing you. 
But — They do have a sort of lurid hue! 
The weird, flitting shadows tore. 
The dress of Night with helHsh roar I 
Axes and broken bottles lay, 
Along the gutters of old Broadway. 



Sharps and Flats 105 

"We'll run the primaries in these here thickets, 
And skin the Dutch with onion skin tickets- 
Hurray for a g-ame of Kick-the-wickets !" 
Thus frenzied threats besmirched the night, 
And the boys danced naked in the pale moon- 
light. 
The hatchet of the Fishtown host. 
Long buried 'neath the old gate-post. 
Was brought to light— that did betoken, 
The treaty with the Dutch was broken. 
The war-like bunch had drawn the sword. 
To trim the Gang in every ward. 
This brings us to the statement where. 
Reform's first slogan smote the air — 
Everett Colby shure was there! 

Giles' hungry outfit, the following mom 
Went down to the river to steal some corn, 
A sort of "Oome into the garden, Maud " 

?J^* ^i?^, l^/-^ ^"""^^ to— my good Lord! 
The Old Man" and a sentinel, 
Remained at the fort— they wasn't well. 
Soon Injuns came with pehs to trade, 
And Giles, not feeling at all afraid, 
Parieyed with them— skilled in the art 
And, they all got stuck— Giles in the heart 

The sentmel was seized and tied 

There wasn't a sound spot on his Hyde' 
He hollered for his good friend Loudensla^er 
But Loudy'd" skiddooed like a carpet-bagger! 
Then came all Fishtown's frenzied hosts 
Who rushed like animated ghosts, 
Upon the unarmed pilfering men, 



io6 Sand-Burrs 

And the place soon looked like a slaughter-pen I 

"Kill and Burn" orders were handed down, 

And the Fishtown Reformers did it Brown! 

Then, instead of going to their bunks, 

The town was filled with a lot of drunks. 

They wern't all Reformers, but I might explain. 

They had the knack of raising Cain. 

And what, with other ills we've *'knowed," 

Jersey's always carried an awful load. 

I know that a story on this line, 

Is poor in thought — and worse in rhyme, 

So pqrsue it in a casual way — 

And don't get sore — as the fellers say! 



Siitun SttBti$ laUaJKB. 



SOUL EXPANSION. 

Gittin' up so early — say at five — 

Washin' at th' pump so clear an' cool. 

Makes yo' feel rig-ht glad 'at yore alive ; 
Fittin' yo' fer work in Nature's school. 

One hears th' robbins singin' roundelays, 
An' sparrers chirpin' in th' chicken yard. 

An' roosters crowin' loud, with swellin' breast. 
An' things es wakin' up an' tryin' hard, 

Th' rest o' Nature to awake from rest. 

G'ess most people don't know why — who dwell 
In city higtiways 'mid th' 'ternal noise, 

Of rumblin' trucks an' clang-in' trolley bell 
Drownds out th' glory of th' country's joys, 

G'ess most people spend ther life in dust, 
'Mid sprinkled streets an' dagos wieldin' 
brooms. 

An* ice cream carts, aslavin' fer mere crust. 
An' dyin' in ther gloomy city toombs. 

Don't see why a man kin ever 'ford, 
T* hang out in so hot an' dry a place 
109 



no Sand-Burrs 

Es them big towns, when they kin alius board. 
An' daily live an' grow in God's good grace, 
With all his universe fer breathin' space. 

T' dream o' fields an' see th' graceful rye, 
Bow down in homage as His winds sweep by, 

T' swell th' chest an' lungs, which as it were, 
Bespeaks His breath o' life, I doo aver. 

God grant me grace t' see Thy beauties strewn, 
An' preach Thy Gospel so thaf men may 
grow, 

Not in th' vortex o* a city's ruin. 

But in th' country — lands ! I love it sOv. 

Yet as we live in all this boundless earth, 

Men seem to find that which they mostly 
crave, 

An' settle nigh it, live in sorrow, mirth, 

An' find that self-same restin' place, th' grave. 



THE LAY O' THE BLOOMIN' LAND. 
I 

We here 'em pratin 'bout th' times, ask what's 

a-comin' next; 
Revivals sweepin' round th' world — ^but not th' 

Golden Text. 
There's fightin' off in forrin climes an' home 

scraps is a mess; 



Down Jersey Ballads hi 

An' twixt th' Trusts' high price on grub, a 

man's got no redress. 
It's poHcy t' see th' point ahead o' times, old 

pard; 
Ef th' world's a-growin' better — then th' 

people's gettin' haji'd; 
Fer th' bloomin' cash runs everything an' yet 

salvation's free. 
At least we hear 'em say so, when they pray fer 

you an' me. 

II 

But we ain't got no crows ter pick with sinner 

er with saint; 
We leave it t' th' rest ter smear th' mud an' 

yaller paint. 
Us scribblers takes a cas'al look, an' jabs some, 

on th' sly, 
An' chucklin', watch th' fight go on — behold th' 

feathers fly. 
Th' good Lord made some comical, an' some is 

shy on wits ; 
He giv' t' us th' Congressmen, th' dubs, th' 

hipeaxrits. 
He made 'em all "get busy" an' th' world begin 

t' spin; 
An' jes' t' make th' wheels work slick, he 

chucked some suckers in. 

Ill 

Some feeds upon each other, but th* most live* 
by their wits ; 



112 Sand-Burrs 

Th' Boss jes' laffs an' says "doggone I've made 

some bum misfits." 
Th' devil'll get th' worst o' them, th' good'll 

crowd th' meek; 
An' them's as left, I do opine, will cuss a livin' 

streak. 
But comin' back t' commonplace, th' humbugs 

an' th' bores, 
The' knights o' Industry an' folks what's doin' 

religious chores, 
It strikes this hombly poet Cher's things what 

needs dismissal; 
An' 'cludin' social forms, this life's too dod- 

blamed artificial ! 

IV 

So its hey-day an' alius pay-day to th' ones 

what's got th' cash ; 
Its makin' wimmen foolish, but th' men was 

alius rash. 
Things has hit a giddy clip, from ballroom down 

to toiler. 
An' I opine she can't last long without a busted 

boiler. 
So friends, "be good," jes' ponder some, on 

what the poet's said; 
Don't get yer back up over facts, but think, 

while winnin' bread. 
This "spit-ball" earth will wobble down them 

good old Halls o' Time, 
So go dip in, grab all you can, but don't shout — 

"you've got mine !" 



Down Jersey Ballads 113 



MACKEREL PLACER. 

A LAY OF THE KLONDYKE GOLD 
REGION. 

Jim, he sot on a dry goods box clost up agin 

th' store. 
Twirlin' his thumbs an' grumblin', now an' 'en 

swore. 
Jake sot next a-listenin', an Bill wuz leanin' by. 
An' Pete wer' lookin' vakant-like, heavin' o' a 

sigh. 
"Boys, what air we gone t' dew?" Jim says, 

despairin' like ; 
^'Farmers ain't a hirin' help, miners es on a 

strike ; 
A feller can't make sixty cents 'ith pick, er 

spade, er hoe — 
Wot in hell we comin' tew — I'd like t' know!" 

An' 'lowin' no one spake a word, Jim contin- 

uin' says, 
"I bin bumin' hyarbouts a year an' forty days. 
Ain't a feller in th' place in harder luck an' me ; 
An' ain't no way o' gittin' out," continuin' on, 

says he. 
An' nary feller says a word — hadn't naught f 

say; 
All big, strappin' fellers, too ; Jim brung 'em all 

t' bay. 
When up spake Pete Rawlins,- suggestin'-like, 

says he. 



1 14 Sand-Burrs 

"Sposin' all us fellers goes jines th' new navy?" 

''While I prefer th' awmy, Pete," Jim he says; 

''but 'en, 
We 'uns can't jine aryone — bein' married men." 
An' 'en a silence kum 'erlong like th' winds 

'at sigh 
O'er th' sultry fields o' grain wavin' far an' 

nigh. 
Purty soon MacDuff cum long, paper in his 

hand, 
He'd stuck way down in it, an' headin' fer th' 

band. 
"Ho! thar, Mac, wot's new terday, 'lowin' yew 

kin read, 
Cum, set down an' tell th' boys — hev' a load o' 

weed?" 

Jim he wer th' speaker (Jim's got pow'ful 

nerve). 
But he's a pow'ful feller — good t' fight er 

serve. 
An' Mac he cums an' sets him down — ain't 

sayin' nothin' yet. 
But when he told 'at story — th' fellers, they 

did sweat! 
"Boys, way up in 'laska, six thousand miles 

away, 
They've struck et rich in yeller stufif, so this 

paper say; 
An' fellers wot wer starvin' got money now t' 

burn. 



Down Jersey Ballads 115 

An' comb homb rich as Caesar — at lairly makes 
me yearn. 

"Men's makin' fifteen dollars es' workin' b' th' 
day, 

An' every man't got th' nerve kin double 'at 
they say. 

Th' papers ain't a-lyin', fer they's got proof 
t' show. 

Count me out from Papinsville — MacDuff's 
agoin' t' go !" 

When Mac hed told his story, in all 'em fel- 
lers' eyes, 

Thar gleamed a reassurin' look fer some bold 
enterprise. 

An' on Dave Fisher's dry goods box 'em fel- 
lers laid thar plans, 

An' swore by hope etamal, they'd reach th' 
golden lan's. 

Th' fellers went an' seen th' jedge, an' on his 
honest face, 

They borrowed funds 'nuff an' more ter send 
'em to 'at place. 

They got thar wives t'gither in th' jedge's ten- 
ement. 

An' some took t' th' wash tub to help hold 
down th' rent. 

An' three weeks later five big men 'ith mon- 
strous lookin' packs, 

Upon far Juneau Citv turned ther bended backs. 

An' one month later on, ha'f froze, an' purty 
wellnigh dead. 



ii6 Sand-Burrs 

Five thin, but hearty yeomen wer clost t' 
Yukon's bed. 

Bill an' Pete, an' Jim an' Jake an' Mac, 'em 

yeomen's be; 
They's gone through hell an' brimstone that 

'ud done up you and me. 
Didn't hev' no bizness rules ceptin' by thar 

gun, 
Jes' walked right in sn' staked a claim, whar 

Minte river run. 
'At worry day *em fellers struck et pow'ful full 

an' rich, 
They thawed an' washed an' washed an' thawed 

th' dirt in private ditch. 
An' in honor of MacDuffie, they named her 

Mackeral Mine, 
An' swished an' swashed th' gravel in ecstasy 

sublime. 

Th' jedge's thousand dollars hed multiplied so 
fast, 

They didn't know jes' zackly, but reckonin' on 
th' past, 

Thought in yaller metal they could 'ford t' 
shake th' place, 

An' 'low two hundred thousand fer each an' 
every face. 

An' so it happened later on, es et has done be- 
fore, 

Them beggars found thar fortunes upon a far 
orf shore. 



Down Jersey Ballads 117 

They bring thar dust together an*' when an 

equal ''div," 
Showed each $200,000, they 'lowed 'at they c'u'd 

live. 

Thar were weepin' an' lamentin' when 'em fel- 
lers went away, 

Thar were cryin' an' a sobbin' one vear gone 
t'-day. 

But thar b' no more o' sufferin' in th' fambilies 
o' those 

Who worked th' Mackerel placer whar th' chilly 
Yukon flows I 



SI PERKINS' STEAM THRASHER. 

Si Perkins wer a Jerseyman, a farmer as t' 

trade, 
But Si had his own troubles in an orful escapade. 
He ust t' thrash fer farmin' folks fer twenty 

miles around, 
And knew 'bout ev'rybody, t' say notKTn' of the 

ground. 
Pop he wer livin' nigh Five P'ints, had lived 

thar fer years, 
An' Gran'pop ust t' run th' place afore him so 

it 'pears. 
But Si, as I wer' goin' ter say, he had thrashed 

b' th' hour, 
He swung th' flail when he was young, but since 

they got steam power. 



ii8 Sand-Burrs 

Si, he saved up an' skimped 'long an' we ex* 

pectin' naught, 
Seen ole Si come sailin' by 'pon a rig he'd 

bought. 
"Jiuiiinee !" th' ole man says ; "yo' b' flyin' high, 
Guess yo're kalkalatin' fer t' thrash th' country, 

Si!" 
"Ya-as,"' says Si, "I've worked durned hard an' 

this here engine here, 
Is goin' ter make me rich right soon, er it's 

most powerful queer. 
This engine travels b' herself; doil't have t' 

use me team; 
Yo' see, Dan, 'ats th' Vantage o' thrashing 

grain b' steam. 
"I hain't got quite 'quainted, but I 'low she 

won't act queer, 
An' as I'm sort o' genis, it combs natchul-like 

t' steer ; 
Jes' hev' t' keep her runnin' trim, give her lots 

o' steam. 
She'll travel durned sight faster an' enny pacin' 

team. 
''Ya-as, Dan, I'm feelin' happy-Hke, an' Dan'l, 

wouldn't you ?" 
Gonter thrash yore grain t'^day, wanter try t' 

git through, 
So es I kin go t' Fort's, fer David says his grain, 
B' burnin' up; 'ats what he gits fer keepin' et 

in rain." 
"Comb int' dinner, Si," says Pop; "Will, go 

put up his team," 



Down Jersey Ballads 119 

An' I goes out — combs runnin' in — th' durned 

thing run b' steam ! 
Yo' ort t' heard th' ole man laff; "alright, g'ess 

she'll stand, 
Comb in an' git yore dinner, Will, an' Ben, 

comb take a hand." 
"I git so 'customed t' astin' folks t' comb in 

an' hitch ther team, 
I clean forgot — an' Will did too — 'at your'n 

wer irun b' steam." 
But while we were hard eatin' a loud unearthly 

screech 
Hits our ears 'bout loud 'nuff t' drownd a fel- 
ler's speech. 
An' Si he 'lows his new engine were blowin' off 

of steam, 
Th' ole man 'lows she's blowin' up an' Ben's 

face gits like cream. 
"G'ess I'll haf t' look at her, an' see ef she's 

alright;" 
Si, he jumps up, grabs hk hat an' disappears 

from sight. 
But I was watchin' of 'at thing an' suddenly I 

seen 
Th' engine startin' up t' go, an' heard her hissin' 

steam. 
"Thar she's goin' ! Thar she goes !" I shouted 

in alarm, 
Si's a-tryin' t' ketch her, she's headin' fer th' 

barn! 
Up we jumps an' out we go, fallin' over chairs, 
Tb' wimen folks 'ith nelt-up hands wer offerin' 

up of prayers. 



i2d Sand-Burrs 

Ole Si wer toein' arter her, an' ketchin* on 

behin', 
He tried ter stop her on a run; he seen his 

ole engine 
Wer holdin' stiddy fer th' barn, an' seein' she 

wouldn't clear. 
He raced erlong, dumb on th' seat an' 'en be- 
gan t' steer. 
But tork 'bout a shyin' hoss er holdin' a skeary 

team, 
Fo'ty bosses ain't no worse en his'n run b' 

steam. 
Si jes' sheer'd orf an' grazed th' barn, but she 

wer gainin' speed. 
Si know'd et, Gee! how he did steer t' git th' 

longest lead; 
Orf they went acrosst a field, how 'at thing did 

fly! 
Through a nine rail fence she went, throwin* 

clods up high. 
Rattled o'er an ole plank bridge, steame'd right 

through a gate, 
Struck th' pike — ole Si belt on — at an orful 

gait. 
"Can't run any furder, boys, I'm nigh 'bout 

done; 
Yo' two keep a follerin' hard es yo' kin rim." 
But th' last we seen o' Si, wer him a steamin' 

down, 
B' Sike's mill, a-headin' straight fer West Tulnis- 

town. 
Saw Si wavin' of his hat, heer'd the whistle 

screech, 



Down Jersey Ballads 121 

Heer'd th' engine rumblin' on her ten mile 

reach, 
'En th' ole man he caught up mounted on ole 

bay. 
We panted, "whar yo' goin'?" Pop says, "Up 

that away!" 
Ben an' me turned back on this, milked an' got 

chores done, 
Cleaned all up an' had our grub 'fore th' boss 

got homb. 
"Whar'd yo' find Si Perkins, pop ?" I ast seri'sly, 
"Where'd I find Si Perkins ? tip in a chestnut 

tree." 
"An' whar'd yo' find his engine?" Ben ast 'ith 

a twitch. 
"Whar'd I find his engine? in th' Fox Grape 

ditch." 
" 'Low et warn't broken none — leastwise worst 

fer wear," 
"G'ess yo's 'lowin wrong," I said, ketchin' Pop's 

sad stare, 
"I 'low Si's sorter busted up an' feelin' kind o' 

blue; 
An' 'at his great steam thrasher hev' sorter 

fallen through." 
Here fh' ole man chuckled some — recallin' 'at 

strange sight, 
Here th' ole man chuckled some — 'en 'lowed 

that I was right. 



122 Sand-Burrs 



ALASKAN GOLD BALLAD. 

A song of your wild Alaska ! 

(Pure gold for you and I.) 
Let the strong push on with ribald song. 

Let the sick and desolate die. 
The ''Stuff" sets a pace for the people — 

A long and terrible gait. 
The short and long, the sick and strong 

*Tull out" for tides won't wait. 

The fever is more lasting, 

Than ague or grim typhoid. 
We know that Death is manifest 

Up there in that ''aching void." 
It's a thankless search for the "yellow/; 

Which even old earth defies ; 
And it glints in the face of the Sheriff's "case' 

When the honest 'un up and dies. 

It's two to one in favor 

Of one returning rich — 
Guarding his "sand" with gun in hand, 

(While eight lay stretched in the ditch.) 
All hell could not induce him, 

Were it to stand at his door 
And offer him wealth to jeopardize health, 

And traverse that trail once more. 

For a man's no sloth to Reason, 
When he's had a run o' ill, 



Down Jersey Ballads 123 

When Luck's shassayed from his worn down 
spade, 

And he's up for a "grub-stake" bill. 
The stuff in his gun is warmer — 

It's better food than bread; 
So he bites the gun — the unfortunate one 

Is richer in being dead. 

Think of the wife behind you, 

And her look of blank despair. 
When you ''jacked" yer job like a bloomin' 
slob, 
For a chance to live on air. 
You got good air and water — 
Good water sweet and cold; 
And worn to the roots yer teeth — chewing 
boots — 

Say, Did you land the gold? 
So here's to the "Yellow Metal," 

(The gold that's for you and I.) 
With a rancid song by a maudlin throng — 

And a notable death to die. 
Yes, there's lots of gold in Alaska, 

(They say there's gold in the sea.) 
But the bloomin' stuff don't glitter enough, 

To tempt such a fool as me. 



124 Sand-Burrs 



WHEN H'ZIKA COMES T TOWN. 

When my H'zika comes t* town, 
He buys th' strangest lot o' things, 

'En tries t' tell me up an' down, 
They all ar' barg'ins 'at he brings I 

He'll get into an argiment, 

Tth anyone 'bout th' way, 
A ho'ss is drove er mail be sent, 

An' all th' chaps '11 call 'im jay. 

He ain't so keerful 'bout his style, 
Fer 'ith one pant-leg in his boot. 

An' t'other out, 'ith mud leastwise, 
A-hanging t' his Sunday suit. 

Them swindlers tc.lls 'im black is white, 
An' he believes et like a fool, 

(I never seen a boy whats quite 
So sp'iled o' reason out 'en schooLJ 

Thar ain't a man in Jersey — laws ! 

Kin beat Zik ploughin' ef he tried. 
An' town folks takes 'im in, b'cause. 

He acts an' looks s' eountryfied. 



Down Jersey Ballads t^ 



CUR'OUS SAM. 

My Sam's a cur'ous sort of chap — 

My Sam— 
But he*s jes' my style fer all o' that — 

Jest a simple workin* man. 
He ain't dressed fine like his neighbors is — 
But ther's somethin' you like 'bout that garb 

o' his. 
An' he lives in the plainest, home-like way; 
"I believe in comfort," he'll smilin' say. 

He gets up when th' chickens does — 

My Sam — 
Goes wanderin' through the fields he loves. 

Gets all the air he can. 
His plan ter keep th' system square. 
Is ter mix plain food with good, fresh air. 
''When Pop died," says Sam, "he was eighty- 
three. 
An' them's th' perscriptions he give ter me." 

Life ain't all work — er it ain't all play 

With Sam— 
"Jes' haf-an'-haf's 'bout right," he'll say, 

"Fer a workin' man." 
Sam kin swear at his ho'sses, g^ein' about. 
Or kin 'tend prayer-meetin' an' be devout. 
Oh, Sam's a cur'ous sort of chap, 
But he's jes' my style fer all o' that — > 

Jest a simple workin' man. 



00ngB xxf Patnirttem. 



BALLAD OF THE BATTLE OF RED 

BANK. 

(Fought October 22, 1777, at Red Bank, 
Gloucester County, N. J., across the Delaware 
River from League Island Navy Yard, Phila- 
delphia. This battle-field is now Marked by a 
Magnificent Monument, Erected in 1906 to 
take the Place of the Historic Little Shaft 
Erected in 1828, which still Stands.) 

'Twas on a crisp October morn — long, long 

ago to-day, 
When Freedom's Fathers strove with hosts 

less valiant than they. 
When Militiamen and Regulars by love of com- 

m'onweal. 
Joined forces down at Red Bank and made the 

British kneel. 
The field larks soared with cheerful songs upon 

that glorious morn. 
The robins may have gaily poured in gladsome 

praise a song. 
And farmers journeyed forth to toil — 'twas then 

man's bread was won. 
By taking with the hoe and plow, the ever- 
ready gun. 
Hark! From the distance comes a so^^nd, 

borne faint upon the air ; 
129 



130 Sand-Burrs 

The goodly housewife, to and from her door 
doth stop and stare. 

The plowmen pause and stop their teams — and 
to each other call — 

Through all the broad and level fields strange 
echoes .rise and fall. 

Thqre was no consternation spread, among 
those farmers brave. 

It was a common duty for these men to tempt 
the grave. 

And then a coatless rider upon a foam-flecked 
bay 

Came thundering along the road that leads by 
Gloucester way. 

"Ho, loyal, faithful countrymen — your arms — 
the British come !'*' 

And almost simultaneously, the rolling of a 
drum, 

From Mqrcer Fort, called Minutemen; and 
soon a strange array- 

Of rough-clad, sturdy, sun-burnt men, stood 
ready for the fray. 

And while these men were counting off in com- 
panies, by fours, 

Two hundred Regulars marched in from one of 
Morgan's corps. 

And then a wild huzzah went up, for plainly to 
be seen 

Was their tall and handsome leader — the gal- 
lant Colonel Greene. 

The British had stanch alHes, too-; for a Ger- 
man, Count Donop, 



Songs of Patriotism 131 

Served 'neath the British ensign — until his 
pulse did stop. 

He led 1200 Hessians — a curse upon their 
creed — 

For men who war for naught but gold, are 
strangely built, indeed! 

Fort Mifflin fell into their hands — ^-through 
Howe's naval shell ; 

Brave Colonel Russell, Colonel Smith and Ma- 
jor Thayer fell. 

'Twas there a band of loyal souls went out of 
earth's sad play^ 

And strewn across the parapets their shattered 
bodies lay. 

Flushed with success at Brandywine, the Brit- 
ish came to town ; 

They fell upon staunch Mercer Fort — in history 
so renown — 

They fell in hordes upon that foirt, but e'er the 
pile gave way, 

Full many of their choicest men, behind them 
dead, left they. 

And it has oft been quoted that the fight we 
celebrate 

Cost Britain quite a sum in gold to rightly com- 
pensate. 

The families of those hirelings who o'er the 
ocean came, 

And served 'neath Lord Cornwallis and fought 
for gold — not fame. 

And this is where the rub comes in ; Cornwallis, 
in his tent, 



t^2 Sand-Burrs 

Was pacing round the bivouac his feelings giv- 
ing vent. 
"At last," said this ereat General, "we've the 

river to the sea ; 
These rebels now will realize how severe King 

George can be !" 
Thus spake the great Cornwallis, but suddenly 

there came 
An orderly, who saluting said, "Pray, in His 

Highness' name, 
The Hessian troops are routed, Sire, it seems 

their every hopes 
Are bent on seeing who'll be first to tumble in 

the boats." 
Another orderly came .riding in — the sweat was 

on his brow; 
"Sire," he said, "sad news I bear; full sad it 

is, I trow; 
For Count Douop — ten officers — four hundred 

men He there 
Dead within the rebel lines — killed in that brief 

affair." 
Then up jumped proud Cornwallis, deep stung 

unto the core. 
His sword and spurs a-jangling while hcrrid 

oaths he swore. 
And soon his troops came marching back — sore 

from defeat were they, 
With just four hundred troopers less than wlien 

they marched away. 



Songs of Patriotism 133 



PROCESSIONAL HYMN FOR THE 
SPANISH-AMERICAN WAR. 

God and Lord of this robust Land, 

Now plunged in the bitter bHght of War. 
Yet IStrong as few of Nations are — 

Extend to us Thy guiding hand ! 

That mankind may be great and free. 
Lord God, grant us the Victory ! 

And while the ponderous ordnance speak, 
And skilful armies crash in strife, 
Oh, God, be kind to human life — 

Remembering all men are weak. 
In sabre gleam and rifle song, 
God of our Union — lead us on ! 

Though Europe comes with allied band, 
With horde equipped and miles in length — 
Then, Mighty Father, give us strength 

To waird the locusts off our Land. 
With bended forms we ask of Thee 
To help us keep this Nation — Free ! 

And when the field is hushed in Death, 
The silent hosts by shot laid low— 
What matters be they friend or foe — 

Lord, be with those who gasp for breath, 
God of the World, let Thy good will 
Forgive Thy warring children still! 



134 SAND-Bu'ilRS 

Our faith is humbly placed in Thee ; 
Our trust is like the still of Night, 
When Heaven casts its peaceful light 

Across the heaving, restless sea. 
God of the World, let Thy good will 
Forgive Thy wa^rring children still! 



WHEN LINCOLN CALLED FOR VOL^ 
UNTEERS. 

When Lincoln called for volunteers, 
John Johnson's wife she shed some tears ; 
For like a good, brave man he went, 
And j'ined a fightin' regiment. 
He took his gun and looked her o'er, 
A-sayin' he was hot for war. 
Then puttin' on his soldier suit, 
Said he was jes' prepared ter shoot 
Any skulkin' Reb galoot. 

Old Johnson had a weasen kid — 
Look sickly? Well, now, he jes' did. 
But that young striplin' was the stuff, 
Per when his Dad lay at Bald Bluff, 
Sammy strained his skinny arm, 
A-holdin' down their little farm — 
Some forty acres on a hill 
A piece outside of Merchantville. 
First their best cow went an' died; 
An' then their ho'ss broke down — an' Sammy 
cried. 



Songs of Patriotism 135 

He'd got most of his plowin' done, 
But there was other things begun. 
The chickens got the roop and dropped — 
And then the weekly paper stopped. 
The more Sam thought about the war, 
The more he cussed it o'er and o'er. 
"What's everything a-comin' to? 
Blamed if I know what to do \" 

And soon there wern't a bite of bread; 

In another week Mrs. Jones dropped dead. 

She died because poor Sammy failed 

To get a doctor when she ailed. 

Then weasen Sam, with shoulders bent. 

Into a regiment he went. 

That braced him up an' give him pride. 

An' brushed his slouchy style aside. 

One day, in the fall of '63, 
Accordin* t' records left ter me. 
Young Sam up to the Colonel steps 
An' gets them silken epalets. 
Puts on high boots, gets on a horse — 
Then weasen Sam looked fine, of course. 
"A Captain, eh? That ain't so bad, 
But gte; I wisht I could find Dad!" 
Both died at the fight of Chancellorville, 
Side by side, chargin' up a hill. 

Yes, Mrs. Johnson, she shed tears, 
When Lincoln called fer volunteers. 



136 Sand-Burrs 

An' stire as weVe right where they lay, 

I do believe until this day — 

She knew things would turn out that way! 

The late William Donaldson Connor enlisted 
befoie he was 17 years of age, from Camden, 
N. J., in Company H (Captained by Francis 
Adams Donaldson, his cousin) 118th Pennsyl- 
vania Volunteers, known as the Corn Exchange 
regiment, and served a three-years' enlistment. 
This famous regiment figured in many disas- 
ters (notably, Shepherdstown, W. Va.) and 
many brilliant victories. 

Private Connor was transferred on February 
8, 1864, to Companv I, 2nd regiment Veteran 
Reserve Corps, and was detailed dispensary 
clerk at Kalorama Heights Hospital. Washing- 
ton, D. C, after his recovery from black small- 
pox contracted on the field. The terrible dis- 
aster which happened to the 118th at Shep- 
herdstown, 30 days after the regiment had 
taken the field, was due to tactical error in 
leaving the regiment inisupported against ten 
brigades of Confederates under General A. P, 
Hill. Private Connor assisted his Colonel, 
Charles M. Prevost who had been shot through 
the waist, to swim across the Potomac, in the 
memorable rout of the regiment, which suf- 
fered a loss of several hundred men, some of 
whom were killed bv a Union battery across 
the river and who, at first, couldn't get their 
shells over the regiment. The incident is quoted 
in history as one of the most terrible ordeals 




An old war-time picture of William Donaldson 
Connor, father of the author of this volume. 



Songs of Patriotism 137 

lasting half an hour that any Civil War reg'i- 
ment ever went through. 

At Fredericksburg Private Connor was inca- 
pacitated by concussion from a glancing explod- 
ing shell, which struck a railroad track upon 
which he was standing. He died in 1887 as the 
result of a complaint that was chronic in the 
a<rmy and followed him through life. 

The 118th was part of the Army of the Poto- 
mac, and took part in 39 battles, mcluding An- 
tietam, Shepherdstown, F/ixdericksDurg, Chan- 
cellorsville. Wilderness, Spottsylvania, Peters- 
burg, Gettysburg, Rappahannock, Cold Har- 
bor, Peeble's Farm, Five Forks and Appomat- 
tox, Lee's surrender. 

The regiment was raised, equipped and in ac- 
tion in 30 days. New Jersey's war time United 
States Senator and Legislator, Hon. A. G. Cat- 
tell, late of Merchantville, N. J., was president 
of the Corn Exchange Bank of Philadelphia 
and Chairman of the Bank's committee which 
raised the regiment in 3 862. 

Veteran Charles C. Baker of 34th and Fed- 
eral streets, Camden, N. J., is one of the very 
few survivors of this grand old regiment, which 
did such noble service for the Nation. Veteran 
Baker was sergeant of Company I and was also 
commissary sergeant of the regiment, and was 
still hale and hearty and soldierly looking as 
ever when the writer last saw him. 

These facts have been gleaned from the re- 
markably well-written 800-page, copiously illus- 
trated ''History of the 118th Pennsylvania Vol- 



138 Sand-Burrs 

unteers," compiled, edited and written by Corp- 
oral John L. Smith of Company K., a publisher 
of Philadelphia, who has just issued a revised 
editicm of his noble work. 



MEMORIAL DAY. 

Today, we celebrate the Nation's dead; 
Touch lightly, ye, and e'er so lightly tread, 
When near the soldier's silent, grassy mound, 
For dust of heroes mingles with this ground. 
Roll! panoply of war! Flit by vague dreams, 
The corps is marching on! The fleet careens I 
Sound! fife and drum and band, ye cannons, 

roar ! 
Awake the men now dead to life once more. 

Let live now, as of yore. 

In pallid days of war. 

Participants in that stupendous fight. 

Oh Liberty! oh death with victory 

Upon thy blood-wet brow ! what minstrelsy 

Can tune in living chords its lofty lay. 

What feeble things do Fiction, History say I 

Oh, will there e'er arise a genius who, 

Spurred on by fiery veins, with impulse true, 

Speak to the people with a voice full strong. 

And glorify her heroes in his song? 

One there was to sound the paen loud, 

With heartfelt pulsings for the motley crowd, 



Songs of Patriotism 139 

Sung he, Democracy and made known 
In .rugged verse, peculiarly his own. 
The glory of existence, joys of life ; 
His songs of war breathed of the mighty strife. 
He sleeps in yon fair Harleigh in a tomb 
Burrowed in the hillside 'neath the gloom 
Of heavy shade — an earthly paradise. 
Nobler deeds and nobler themes are few. 
And nobler men and women, loyal, true, 
Loved they so dear their flag and native land. 
Lived not in any age a more devoted band. 
As children read their histories of the war. 
The Veterans well may fight their battles o'er, 
Tell to their families how the broken ranks 
Rallied on colors; how extended flanks 
Were swept like chaff away before the force 
That blocked this land's commercial inter- 
course. 

The Soldiers of the Union never knew 

The magnitude of war, but as it grew. 

And many, many went and few returned. 

The parent heart was first that sadly yearned, 

And there were torturing love scenes then. 

Between fair women and most noble men. 

Scenes rendered harder by the fate 

Of him on whom her duty was to wait. 

Oh sorrow inexpressible! so bare 

Of consolation ; for the boy who went to do his 

share. 
His grave not in the churchyard — where? 
But anguish riven hearts here fashioned chains, 



140 Sand-Burrs 

By which they strive to shackle down their 

pains. 
Yet wounds like limbs of trees pruned new, 
Still healing, still bursting out to view. 
And so in sorrowing souls the years are traced 

by stains. 
Then let our heroes' graves be freely strewn, 
With fresh cut flowers, in whose fragrant bloom 
A trace of reverence lives; an holy rift, 
WhQi'ein the hand and heart that made the gift 
Sends back a token out of that sad past, 
Which, Heaven grant, shall ever be our last! 



THE CHILD AND THE VETERAN. 

"Father, tell me 'bout the war; 

'Bout men yous killed an' fings yous sawr; 

'Bout how you uster get your food, 

An' coffee what you say ain't good 

As some what Mother makes t'day; 

An' how your arm got hurted that way? 

Tell me how you uster sleep, 

How drums would play an' fifes would squeak. 

An' how stiff you uster feel at morn. 

An' go in battles chewin' corn; 

Then drink tli' water what's been stirred 

By soldier-men an' th' tramplin' herd 

Of Cavalry ! 

Tell me 'bout the horsies what 

You've eat a slice of — what's been shot — 

"Hush, child; you bring back the scenes, 



Songs of Patriotism 141 

Enacted many years ago. 

(But then she knows not what it means — that 
carnival of misery, woe!) 

"Why, child, those things yoir* father bore 

As his part in the Civil War; 

But you can^t realize, daughter small — 

School histories do not tell it all !" 

"But, Father, did you hafter go 

An' did they treat all Papas so?" 

And as she gazed with winsome smile, 

Upon her papa all the while. 

She added : "When that big war begun 

Youi went because it was such fim !" 



ARMY JIM. 

GItlong with you, old white Jim — gee' ep! 
Shake them feet an' keep in th' street ; 
Stop that snortin' an' hold up yer head; 
WobbHn' 'bout th' road like some old toad- 
Folks thinks yer nigh 'bout dead ! 
I hate ter use you so poor old Jim, 
For considerin' all told, we two be old, 
With shaky shanks an' eyesight growin' dim. 
Old vets what's served in th' war — 
Who fought and bled like we'uns hed 
Certainly ought not work no more. 
Together we both j'ined th' war — 
This here scab's a bay'net jab — 
Keep movin', watcher stoppin' for? 



142 Sand-Burrs 

You ketched it at Gettysburg with me. 
That big charge we made shattered yer shoul- 
der blade — 
An' shoved th' bay'net clean through my knee — 
But don't stop old ho'ss — go long with ye! 



HENRY L. BONSALL, 

Editor, Poet, Statesman, War Correspondent 
and a Royal American. 

With beard of the Prophet and soft white hair. 

Gentle of voice and lofty of mind. 
And with kindly eyes, our Chief looked fair. 

He was noble and true; considerate — kind. 
Proud of that heritage — a free born man, 

Loving his firm-wrought native land, 
He fell heir to the cause of the weaker clan, 

And the under dogs oft licked his hand. 
Place and position, kith or kin. 

Ne'er turned that loyal heart unjust; 
He died in the harness 'mid Life's harsh din; 

Trouble and Grief broke not his trust. 
The world's at war and our Chief lies dead; 

So flits vain Life and its cares away. 
Lo, all must fight to win the Bread, 

And all must strive and hope and pray. 
The pen of the Veteran carried balm. 

In the trail of the rifle's singing psalnu 
So sing, ye rifles, and hurtling shell. 

Burst and spatter, crack and boom. 



( Songs of Patriotism 143 

The rocks roll open at each death knell. 

And men pass into the battle tomt). 
Nations go singing their battle songs, 

Hunger for conquest — revel in gore. 
South and East the khakied throngs 

Crack the rocks with shot-voiced roar. 
Men go forth and die for kings, 

Defending thrones and some great Cause— ^ 
But our Chief — he counselled other things, 

Than the savage chant — the wild huzzahs ! 



GRANT MEMORIAL PARADE. 

New York, April 27th, 1897. 
Mere words default to tell it all 

And barely grasp its theme. 
The Mind alone 'rose fair and tall 

To view that royal dream ! 
Like something one has read of. 

In mystic ancient lore. 
Of Pageantry and Chivalry 

And never thought of more. 
Like something one has heard of — • 

But dazed to find it fraught 
With humanity, instead of throngs 

That only live in thought. 



JONES OF COMPANY "D." 

Green is the grass above yon plot where the 
starry banner waves, 



144 Sand-Burrs 

And the sun shines bright upon that spot 
throughout the bright spring days. 

The woman had come year after year, like a 
flower too frail to last, 

Decking the place while with tear-stained face 
like a memory of the past. 

Trimming the unkempt blades of grass with 

loving tenderness, 
Twining the roses about his shaft with a fond 

and soft caress. 
Planting his flag — the Stars and Stripes — his 

fate on Malvern Hill, 
Where the toying breeze could come and seize 

its folds with royal will. 

This is the tale of Private Jones, hero — for one 

he died; 
One of Abe Lincoln's bravest sons and the 

cavalry regiment's pride. 
Yet shot like a dog by a sentinel — buried with 

unknown dead; 
"We all loved Jones — and Jones loved us, but 

he tried to desert," they said. 

" 'Twas because of her — that lady there — who's 

sitting beside his grave," 
The Veteran rejoined, while he watched with 

joy the royal banner wave. 
"She sent him a letter — was dying at home — on 

the eve before the fight; 
They hadn't been mar;ried so long before^ — and 

Jones he tried to do right. 



Songs of Patriotism 145 

So he showed the note to Colonel Jim, com- 
manding the regiment, 

And in Heaven's name he pleaded in vain — for 
little weight that lent. 

Colonel Jim was stern and obdurate^ as he said 
with a tremor of sorrow, 

My boy, we need you everyone — ^for you all 
must work to-morrow." 



"Thus how it came in the dead of night Jones 

tried to pass the line. 
And he didn't know that the wife had libbed, 

in her love for him so blind. 
Jones was shot in a crouching attitude, like a 

Rebel spy at bay; 
Then the boys found the note stowed away in 

his coat and none had a wojrd to say. 

Colonel Jim wrote home and informed Jones' 

folks — in a soldierly way he lied — 
Stating that Jones, of Company "D", like a hero 

fought and died. 
And when we buried poor Jones' corpse my 

poor old heart felt sore, 
We gazed on the lad and all felt sad for the boy 

that was no mor^." 

"Why do I speak of this sad case?" said the 

Veteriin, looking away; 
Then he paused and his body trembled some, 

but he saw the old Flag sway. 



146 Sand-Burrs 

"I speak of the case for I'm feelin' sad;" he 

answered in monotones; 
"I was the out-post on that night — 'twas me 

shot Private Jones." 



OH, CHILDREN, ^lEW YON REGIMENT. 

Oh, my children, view the regiments so bat- 
tered — tottering — torn ; 

So battered and so tottering — ^by shot and ele- 
ments shorn. 

'Tis here a leg and there an arm, a limp, a hitch 
and halt, 

Two hundred thousand formed the line and 
more in nature's vault. 

Oh, children, view the regiments — so happily 

did they, 
The rising generation of that time — did march 

away! 
But, ah, those years of suffering, of bloodshed 

and of strife, 
It rent in twain the nation 'mid a wanton waste 

of life ! 

And children, yonder regiments, heroes of Mal- 
vern Hill, 

Of Gettysburg, the Wilderness, and wrecks of 
Qiancellorsville, 

Do stand a living testament of what brave sons 
can do; 



Songs of Patriotism 147 

A shining light and testament, my children, 
handed you ! 

List, children, with yon regiments your father 

miarched away; 
Ah, bitter tears his mother wept upon that 

bleak, cold day. 
His life was wrecked in man-pens; were it not 

for Andersonville 
His father would have yet been young and 

joyed to bless him still ! 

And children, when yon regiments came march- 
ing back to town, 

One anxious father among the rest went rush- 
ing, hurrying down. 

To clasp his son, but oh, alas ! his bronzed and 
handsome son. 

He was not there, alas, and where was that 
dear boy among? 

And children, when yon regiments had mus- 
tered out their men, 

The grass had soothed the battle fields and 
cooled the trenches then, 

My son came back — I shudder at that poor and 
wretched form; 

Youff- mother's dead,'*' I trembled, "and your 
father — " here a storm 

O'er-took my eyes, I bent my head ; but oh, my 
God! my son, 



148 Sand-Burrs 

I am so glad to have you back, to number you 

among 
The living, for your mother thought in her faint 

dying prayer, 
With eyes and cheeks aflame with love, she'd 

meet you — somewhere. 

And, children, your dear mother, she had waited 

patient, strong, 
So certain of his coming as we are the day is 

long. 
She nursed him back somewhat to health — ^he 

was too frail to live — 
The service took his life — his wealth — ^what 

more could mortal give? 

So, children, while yon regiments all shattered 
by the gray, 

Do totter on, we worship them as heroes of the 
day. 

No marble shaft is tall enough; nor monu- 
mental stone — 

Engraven with the soldiers' deeds of valor and 
renown. 

And he who does defame the sod 'neath which 

our soldiers lie, 
Is fitter for perdition's flame than peacefully to 

die. 
Your bones are aching and your toil is passing 

fast away ; 
Oh, tramp ! ye shattered regiments, for few are 

left today ! 



Songs of Patriotism 149 



GREETING: TO YE FRIENDE AND 
YEARE. 

(Camden Republican Club's greetings to its 
friends and members at one of their famous 
New Year night gatherings, 1901. The famous 
old Cooper street mansion was the birthplace 
of the son of "Light Horse" Harry Lee, the gal- 
lant Revolutionary soldier.) 

A welcome — royal welcome! thro' ye olde Co- 
lonial door — 

Home of ye son of "Light Horse" Lee — of In- 
dependence War; 

Now home of goode Republicans, who tender 
and commend, 

The hospitalities of ye ho'ste, to member and 
goode friende. 

Welcome! Yea, thrice welcome! Ye latch- 
string hangs without ; 

And may each join ye revelry, ye song, goode 
cheer and shout. 

Ye festal Eve — ye beaded ale — goode fellowship 
is here — 

Let hearts be light — and heads not quite — glad 
hand to you, New Yeare ! 

By shades of General Washington — and "Light 
Horse Hajrry" Lee, 



150 Sand-Burrs 

We welcome, to ye goode olde home, our 

friends, with minstrelsy. 
Because ye hours of Day be short — ye hours 

of Night, be long! 
We'll fill ye cup and — drink 'er down, and join 

ye festal throng. 

Ye festal Eve comes once each year; so happen 

by what may, 
Betwixt ye intervening space, take heart goode 

folk — be gay! 
Goode life ye live; and welcome warm, so long 

as ye remain — 
Is guaranteed in trust for thee. Ye call, ye 

hoste proclaim. 



THE DAY WE CELEBRATE. 

When Britain crossed the ocean with her na- 
vies manned by knaves, 

While her majestic splendor as a nation, 
ploughed the waves. 

She spurned the smaller conquests on which 
shined down the sun 

'Mid oriental splendor, for the fall of Wash- 
ington. 

There was war in her grim visage and the love 

of human kind 
Was erased, while vengeance glowered in the 

British people's mind. 



Songs of Patriotism 151 

For this province had revolted ; to subject them 

England sent 
Her trained and hardy fighters, with a German 

supplement. 



Through the cohorts of the province rose the 

legions and the voice 
That ire-echoed o'er to England, thundered out 

a nation's choice. 
It was the voice of freemen and the word was 

"Liberty!" 
It swelled in dark forebodings as it rolled across 

the sea. 

And on that day in New York bay, where first 

the British swept. 
Oh, many a maiden knelt to pray and many a 

maiden wept; 
And many a mother did caress and father bless 

his son. 
Then sent him forth to meet the foe beneath 

George Washington. 

God bless those noble women of Revolutionary 

days ! 
They were staunch and brave supporters and 

deserve our highest praise. 
Within the faint, disheartened band they kept 

hope's light aglow. 
And soothed the dying, nursed the sick — ^those 

women long ago, 



152 Sand-Burrs 

And down the nation's future shall triumph's 

mig'hty flame 
Cast an eternal glamor on that pure, inspiring 

name. 
The tribute of our millions shall outshine the 

rarest gem, 
And sparkle with a fiercer glow than monarch's 

diadem. 

Let men bow down in homage, oh, have all 
their children shout! 

Let all the nation celebrate and fling the colors 
out! 

Oh! rising generations sing, and waft toward 
the sun. 

This tribute from America to peerless Wash- 
ington. 

The patriots of Valley Forge, who in the win- 
try swath. 

Outlived the rigor of the storm and marked 
with blood their path. 

That brilliant move of Washington, who with 
an eagle's swoop 

Crossed o'er the icy Delaware and took the 
Hessian troop. 

The bloody fight of Germantown, of Brandy- 
wine, Red Bank, 

Of Trenton and of Princeton, and the blow 
that Cornwall sank. 

Our love can not too strongly shine in grateful 
memory 



Songs of Patriotism 153 

To those brigade's of Washington's, who gave 
us Hberty. 

Doomed to be linked with monarchy was all the 

• pleasant land, 
Had not the sons of Washington arisen an 

armed band 
And crushed in righteous justice and swept 

back o'er the sea 
The scarlet British Regulars from out each 

colony. 

No monumental fame is theirs — no funeral muf- 
fled drum 

Beat out the solemn funeral dirge, but 'mid 
war's clash and hum 

The everlasting trench was dug, and in it they 
were laid. 

Oh ! 'twas a high and mighty price King George 
of England paid. 

Ah! it was Duty's tfump that called the pa- 
triots away; 

And not with tawdry uniforms and trappings 
on marched they. 

Theirs was for glory of their land; theirs was 
for rio-ht and God. 

More royal but not nobler feet have pressed 
this blood swept sod. 

'Neath fame's immortal diadem they sleep for- 
ever more; 



154 Sand-Burrs 

We can but laud the dust of them and tell their 

glories o'er; 
We can but sing with tongue and string and let 

their praises sound, 
Till e'en the knell whereat they fell in glory 

shall resound. 




■^^iS^ft^- 



Sam S. & Lee Shubert 

direct the following theatres and theatrical 
attractions in America : 



Hippodrome, I/yric, Casino, 
Dalys, Lew Fields, Herald 
Square and Princess Thea- 
tres, New York. 

Garrick Theatre, Chicago. 

Lyric Theatre, Philadelphia. 

Shubert Theatre, Brooklyn. 

Belasco Theatre, Washing- 
ton. 

Belasco Theatre, Pittsburg. 

Shubert Theatre, Newark. 

Shubert Theatre, Utica. 

Grand Opera House, Syra- 
cuse. 

Baker Theatre, Rochester. 

Opera House, Providence. 

Worcester Theatre, Worces- 
ter. 

Hyperion Theatre, New 
Haven. 

Lyceum Theatre, Buffalo. 

Colonial Theatre, Cleveland. 

Rand's Opera House, Troy. 

Garrick Theatre, St. Louis. 

Sam S. Shubert Theatre, 
Norfolk, Va. 

Shubert Theatre, Columbus. 

Lyric, Cincinnati. 



Mary Anderson Theatre, 
Louisville. 

New Theatre, Richmond, 
Va. 

New Theatre, Lexington, Ky. 

New Theatre, Mobile. 

New Theatre, Atlanta. 

Shubert Theatre, Milwau- 
kee. 

Lyric Theatre, New Orleans. 

New Marlowe Theatre, 
Chattanooga. 

New Theatre, Detroit. 

Grand Opera House, Dav- 
enport, Iowa. 

New Theatre, Toronto. 

New Sothern Theatre, Den- 
ver. 

Sam S. Shubert Theatre, 
Kansas City. 

Majestic Theatre, Los An- 
geles. 

Belasco Theatre, Portland. 

Shubert Theatre, Seattle. 

Majestic Theatre, San Fran- 
cisco. 

B. H. Sothern & Julia Mar- 
lowe in repertoire. 



Margaret Anglin and Henry 

Miller. 

Virginia Harned. 

Mary Mannering in '* Glori- 
ous Betsy." 

Mme. Alia Nazimova. 

Thos. W. Ross in ''The 
Other Girl." 

Cecelia Loftus. 

Clara Bloodgood. 

Blanche Ring. 

Alexander Carr. 

Digby Bell. 

" The Girl Behind the 
Counter." 

"The Light Eternal.' 

"The Snow Man." 

Blanche Bates in " The Girl 
from the Golden West." 

David Warfield in "The 
Music Master.'* 

" The Rose of the Rancho," 
with Rose Starr. 

Harrison Gray Fiskk'S 

attractions. 
Mrs. Fiske in "The New 
York Idea." 



' Shore Acres." 

Louis Mann in * ' The White 
Hen." 

"The Road to Yesterday." 

Henry Woodruff in " Brown 
of Harvard." 

"The Secret Orchard," by 
Channing Pollock. 

De Wolf Hopper in " Hap- 
py land." 

Eddie Foy in " The Orchid." 

Marguerite Clark, in a new 
opera. 

"The Social Whirl," with 
Chas. J. Ross. 

James T. Powers in "The 
Blue Moon." 



Bertha Kalich. 
"Leah Kleschna." 

"The Man on the Box." 

Cyril Scott in "The Prince 
Chap." 

" Mrs. Temple's Telegram." 

"The Three of Us." 



You cannot go wrong in selecting one of 
these play-houses for an evening's entertain- 
ment in whatever city you may happen to be. 



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Told &t Twflight 

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^ATdelightful collection of stories and poems^ 

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Job Trotter 

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^^ufiiquework, proving that the" "earthly 'paradise'* 
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The Instrument Tuned 

Bv Rosa B. Hitt.> 

..,■■- I 
Attractive Binding/75GentsI\(^ 

Limited Edition in White and Gold, $i.oa^ 

{Author's photo,) 

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The chapter-captions will give an excellent idea of the] 
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Various Therapeutic Agents^ 

Influence of Mind. 

Extravagant Emotion^ . 

Insomnia., 

Relaxation. 

Harmony the Law~of NatwQ 



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From the moment this story opens in the old 
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bJew Book by the Author of 

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We beg to anriounce for autumn a new novel from 
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Lost in the Mammoth Cave 

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A tale which a Jules Verne might envy from 
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A prominent reviewer says : 
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There are no idle moments from cover to cover, 
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Under the Darkness of the 
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A Tale of West Indian Insurrection. 

By Ellen Chazal Chapeau. 
Cloth, i2mo. Attractively Produced. 
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The scenes of this story are laid in Ste. 
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BOOKS YOU MUST READ 
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^Llewellyn 

A NOVEI^ 

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GREY DAWN REFLECTIONS 

By VIRGINIA BEALE LECKIE 

This clever "Washington girl has come close to 
writing the wittiest and brightest book of epigrams 
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A friend lies for — an enemy about — and a wife with — you. 

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A married woman's troubled look at 3 A. M. is not so much 
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Printed on grey antiqwe paper. Cover in grey^ 
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ADIRONDACK^ 
MURRAY 

A Bio^rapKical Appreciation 

By Harry V. Radford 

Editor of "Woods and "Waters 



W. H. H. MURRAY (b. 1840, d. 1904)— equally celebrated 
as preacher, author, lecturer, sportsman and traveler — has be- 
come an immortal figure in American history and letters, taking 
rank, as a writer, with Cooper and Thoreau. Mr. Radford — 
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dack " Murray from the vantage-point of personal acquaintance, 
and with a characteristic grace and charm of style that insures 
for his book permanent popularity. 

HENRY VAN DYKE 

in a personal letter written to the author from "Avalon," 
Princeton, N. J., says of Mr. Radford's book : 

"Your writing takes me back in imagination to tliat beautiful country of 
mountains, and rivers, and lakes, where so many of the happiest months of 
my early life were spent, and where I learned to cast the fly and shoot a 
rifle. It is pleasant to feel the sincere and cordial enthusiasm with which 
you write of the fine traits of Mr. Murray's character, andthe big out-of- 
door side of his life in which the best of his nature found expression. 
1 congratulate you on the success with which you have performed your 
task of gratitude and friendship, and hope that your book will find its 
way into the hands of thousands of those who love the woods and the 
waters." 

10 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS 

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535 BROADWAY, NEW YORK 



SOME OF THE VERY LATEST 
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A Mule Train Journey from East to West in 1862, and 
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tWi 



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